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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/* 


I* 


The  Green  Tree  Library 


Vistas 


CHICAGO 
STONE   fcf   KIMBALL 


MDCCCXCIV 


COPYRIGHT,    1894,    BY 
STONE    AND    KIMBALL 


S~3SX~ 


THIS  FIRST  EDITION  ON  SMALL 
PAPER  IS  LIMITED  TO  SIX  HUN- 
DRED   COPIES 

Stone  &•  Kimball 


*-*'  -i.  .*.._•■<_>  -«_>  w^ 


LI3RARf 


Contents. 

— ♦ — 

PAGE 

FINIS 9 

THE   PASSION   OF    PERE   HILARION     ....  21 

THE   BIRTH    OF    A    SOUL 47 

A    NORTHERN    NIGHT 59 

THE   BLACK    MADONNA §9 

THE   LAST   QUEST Ir3 

THE   FALLEN    GOD I21 

THE   COMING    OF   THE   PRINCE I31 

THE   PASSING   OF    LILITH 143 

THE   LUTE-PLAYER J59 

THE   WHISPERER l7l 


To  H.   M.  Alden. 

TN  dedicating  to  you  this  American  edition  of 
■*■  "Vistas"  I  am  in  the  position  of  one  of 
those  islanders  of  old  who  offered  their  rude 
iron  in  exchange  for  wrought  gold.  lliey, 
however,  bartered  in  all  innocence  :  while  I,  for 
my  part,  know  loo  well  that  nothing  you  can 
find  herein  can  give  you  the  same  deep  and  last- 
ing pleasure  I  have  had  in  your  beautiful  and 
moving  book,  —  the  book  of  a  lifelong  dream,  of 
a  lifetime  reverie,  full  of  strange  beauty,  spirit- 
ual, wrought  out  of  lovely  thoughts  into  lovely 
words. 

How  well  I  reme??iber  the  day  when  I  first 
saw  the  Hudson  in  its  autumnal  glory  !  But 
memorable  as  that  day  is,  shared  with  you  and 
a  dear  common  friend,  poet  and  veteran  critic, — 
in  the  "sixties  "  now,  so  far  as  years  go,  but  in 
the  luonderful  "  twenties  "  in  all  else,  —  my  most 
living  memory  is  of  those  proof-sheets  of  "  The 
Following  Love "  which  were  entrusted  to  me, 
and  made  tipon  my  mind  so  indelible  an 
impression.1 

1  Now,  and  so  far  less  happily,  surely,  called  "God  in 
His  World"  {Harpers'). 

i 


1  Dedication. 

Two  years  later  I  was  with  you  again,  when 
the  shadow  of  ill  lay  almost  more  darkly  upon 
you  yourself  than  upon  the  blithe,  heroic  suf- 
ferer :    and  by    that   time   I  knew  your  book 
intimately,    and   had   learned  much   from    it. 
Then,  too,  I  was  able  to  show  you  one  of  these 
"Vistas,"  and  to  hear  generous  words  in  praise 
of  what  at  best  was  a  passing  breath  of  music, 
as  fugitive,  and  perhaps  as  meaningless  to  most 
people,  as  those  faint  airs  heard  by  my  charcoal- 
burner  in  the  forest,  as  intangible  as  that  odour 
of  white  violets  which  came  and  went  with  each 
delicate  remote  strain. 

You  asked  me  then  what  my  aim  was  in  those 
"  dramatic  interludes "  which,  collectively,  I 
call  "Vistas."  I  could  not  well  explain:  nor 
can  I  do  so  now.  After  all,  I  could  make  only 
a  redundant  use  of  the  title.  All  are  vistas 
into  the  inner  life  of  the  human  soul,  psychic 
episodes.  One  or  two  are  directly  autopsy chical, 
others  are  renderings  of  dramatically  conceived 
impressions  of  spiritual  emotion  :  to  two  or  three 
no  quotation  could  be  more  apt  than  that  of  the 
Spanish  novelist,  Emilia  Pardo  Bazan :  "Enter 
with  me  into  the  dark  zone  of  the  human  soul." 
These  "  Vistas"  were  written  at  intervals :  the 
most  intimate,  in  the  spiritual  sense,  so  long  ago 
as  the  spring  of  1886,  when,  during  recovery 
from  a  long  and  nearly  fatal  illness,  "Lilith  " 


Dedication.  3 

came  to  me  as  a  vision  and  was  withheld  in 
words  as  soo?i  as  I  could  put  pen  to  paper. 
Another  was  written  in  Rome,  after  a  vain 
effort  to  express  adequately  in  a  different  form 
the  episode  of  death-menaced  a?id  death-haunted 
love  among  those  remote  Scottish  wilds  where  so 
much  of  my  childhood  and  boyhood  and  early 
youth  was  spent.  Some  of  my  critics  say  that 
" Vistas"  is  but  an  English  reflection  of  the 
Maeterlinckian  fire.  Two  of  the  most  Maeter- 
linckian  are,  by  those  critics,  held  to  be  "A 
Northern  Night"  and  "  The  Passing  of  Lilith," 
—  creations,  if  such  they  may  be  called,  anterior 
to  the  fortunate  hour  when  1  came  for  the  first 
time  upon  "La  Princesse  Maleine"  and  "Vln- 
truse." 

I  say  "  the  fortunate  hour,"  for  almost  from 
the  first  mo7tient  it  seemed  clear  to  me  that  the 
Belgian  poet-dramatist  had  i7itroduced  a  netv 
and  vital  literary  form.  It  is  one  that  many 
had  been  seeking,  —  stumblingly,  among  them, 
the  author  of  "  Vistas,"  —  but  Maurice  Maeter- 
linck wrought  the  crude  material  into  a  form  fit 
for  swift  and  dexterous  use,  at  once  subtle  and 
simple.  The  exaggerations  of  his  admirable 
method  were  obvious  from  the  first ;  in  "  L'ln- 
truse"  even,  more  markedly  in  "  Les  Aveugles," 
unmistakably  in  "  La  Princesse  Maleine :  "  and, 
it  must  be  added,  still  more  prominently  in  his 


4  Dedication. 

later  productions.  But  he  saw  that  there  was 
a  borderland  for  the  Imagination,  between  the 
realms  of  Prose  and  Poetry.  He  discerned  the 
need,  even  though  it  should  be  but  the  occasional 
need,  — for  after  all  it  is  only  an  addition  to 
the  old  formulas  that  we  seek,  —  of  a  more  elas- 
tic method  than  any  exercised  in  our  day,  one 
that  would  not  restrict  the  elusive  imagination 
nor  yet  burden  it  with  verbal  juggleries  and 
license.  There  is  room  for  the  Imagination 
in  Prose  :  there  is  room  for  the  Imagination  in 
Verse :  there  is  room,  also,  for  the  Imagination 
in  the  vague,  misty,  beautiful  bordeilands.  Of 
course  there  is  nothing  radically  new  in  M. 
Maeterlinck' s  method.  The  Greek  dramatists, 
the  French,  and,  among  others,  Calderon  nota- 
bly, have  all  preceded  him :  the  miracle-plays 
are  "  Alaeterlinckian  :  "  the  actual  form  as 
now  identified  with  his  name  was  first  used  by 
his  contempo7-ary,  Charles  Van  lerberghe,  in 
"  Les  Flaireurs."  Probably  there  is  never 
any  quite  new  literary  method.  Certainly  the 
greatest  writers  were  not  creators  of  the  form 
or  forms  they  adopted:  Aeschylus,  Sophocles, 
Euripides,  Shakespere,  Racine,  Goethe,  Hugo. 
But  after  all,  these  things  matter  little.  The 
"form,"  be  it  what  it  may,  is  open  to  all.  Our 
concern  should  be,  not  with  the  accident  of  for- 
mal similitude,  but  with  the  living  and  convinc- 


Dedication.  5 

ing  reality  behind  the  form,  created  or  adapted 
or  frankly  adopted.  No  one  would  dream  of  an 
imputation  upon  a  poet's  originality  if  he  choose 
to  express  himself  in  the  sonnet  form,  the  most 
hackneyed  of  all  verse-formulas  and  yet  vir- 
ginal to  each  new  wooer  who  is  veritably  son  to 
Apollo. 

After  the  two  already  specified,  one  or  two  of 
the  "Vistas  "  were  written  in  Stuttgart,  in  1891, 
others  a  year  or  so  later  in  London  or  else- 
where, —  all  in  what  is,  in  somewhat  unschol- 
arly  fashion,  called  the  Maeterlinckian  formula. 
The  first  which  I  wrote  tinder  this  impulse  is 
that  entitled  "Finis."  The  latest,  or  the  latest 
but  one  (now  added  to  this  edition)  seems  to  me, 
if  I  may  say  so,  as  distinctively  individual  as 
"  The  Passing  of  Lilith"  and  some,  at  least,  of 
my  critics  have  noted  this  in  connection  with 
"  The  Lute  Player."  In  all  but  its  final  form, 
it  is  a  conception,  an  embodied  conception,  that 
has  been  with  me  for  many  years,  ever  since 
boyhood :  a  living  actuality  for  me,  at  last  ex- 
pressed, but  so  inadequately  as  to  make  me 
differ  wholly  from  the  distinguished  critic  who 
adjudged  it  the  best  of  the  "Vistas."  To  me  it 
is  the  most  obvious  failure  in  the  book,  though, 
fundamentally,  so  near  and  real  emotionally. 
But  where  doctors  disagree  how  may  the  patient 
be  sure  on  any  point?     If  ever  a  book  were 


6  Dedication. 

diversely  reviewed  it  is  "Vistas."  It  has  been 
called  "  rubbish,1''  and  has  enjoyed  the  opposite 
extreme  of  appreciation :  it  has  been  dubbed 
immoral,  and  held  to  be  purely  mystical  and 
spiritual :  one  leading  literary  periodical  has 
ignored  it  altogether,  and  another  of  equal 
eminence  devoted  several  columns  to  it:  it  has 
been  patronized  by  a  well-known  young  critic 
in  the  "Daily  Chronicle"  and  snubbed  by  an 
unknown  young  critic  in  the  " Bookman"  and 
the  "  Scotsman  "  solemnly  reprobated  the  author 
because  (no  doubt  through  igtwrance)  he  began 
with  a  piece  called  "Finis"  Through  it  all, 
the  book  has  survived,  and  found  its  way ;  and 
I  am  content. 

All  this  is  very  personal,  but  I  suffer  it  to  go, 
though  so  much  more  7oillingly  would  I  let  this 
dedicatory  note  remain  a  private  letter.  It 
was  thought  advisable  that  I  should  add  some- 
thing to  the  American  edition,  but  the  chief 
inducement  for  me  was  the  opportunity  of  pay- 
ing a  tribute  of  affection  and  admiration  to 
you,  my  friend,  whom  I  honor  and  esteem  so 
highly. 

If  "Vistas  "  be  liked  by  those  American 
readers  who  see  it  in  this  edition  for  the  first 
time  (whether  or  not  their  verdict  be  for  "  The 
Birth  of  a  Soul,"  "  The  Passion  of  Pere  Hil- 
arion,"  and  "  A  Northern  Night,"  as  the  gen- 


Dedication.  7 

eral  estimate  goes  here)  well  and  good :  if  it 
should  not  appeal,  my  regret  will  be  genuine  : 
but  in  any  case  what  I  hope  for  is  that  some  of 
the  younger  generation  may  obtain  from  it  a  few 
indications,  a  hint,  a  suggestion,  that  may  guide 
or  help  them  towards  that  already  near  and 
profoundly  important  development  of  literary 
expression  which  so  many  of  us  foresee  with 
eager  interest.  A  great  creative  period  is  at 
hand.  Probably  a  great  dramatic  epoch.  But 
what  will  for  one  thing  differentiate  it  from 
any  predecessor  is  the  new  complexity,  the  new 
subtlety,  in  apprehension,  in  formative  concep- 
tion,  in  imaginative  rendering. 

William  Sharp. 


15  Greencroft  Gardens, 
London,  N.  W. 


Finis. 


.  .  .  Blood  for  blood, 
Bitter  requital  on  the  dead  is  fallen. 

Euripides:  Electra. 


Finis. 


[An  obscure  wood,  at  whose  frontiers  neither 
night  nor  day  prevails,  but  only  a  drear 
twilight,  a  brief  way  beyond  the  portals  of 
the  Grave.  In  the  vast  vault  overhead  no 
cloud  moveth,  no  star  shineth.] 

THE    PHANTOM    OF   THE   MAN. 

The  shadows  deepen. 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   MAN. 

\_Blind  with  the  darkness  of  death.']     On  ! 
On! 

THE   PHANTOM. 

This  way  let  us  go. 

THE   SOUL. 

Chill,    chill,    the    breath    from    the    Grave. 
Would  that  I  too  were  dead. 

THE   PHANTOM. 

The  wood  is  dark,  and  the  shadows  deepen. 

THE   SOUL. 

Canst   thou    see    nought?       Dost    thou    see 
nothing  ? 

THE   PHANTOM. 

I  see  nought.     I  see  no  one. 


12  Vistas. 

THE   SOUL. 

This  awful  silence  ! 

THE   PHANTOM. 

Two  shadows  only  —  two  shadows  in  the 
Hollow  Land  that  move.     We  are  they. 

THE   SOUL. 

Dost  thou  not  hear? 

THE   PHANTOM. 

What? 

THE    SOUL. 

Afar  off,  as  in  the  heart  of  the  wood,  a 
strange  sighing. 

THE    PHANTOM. 

Is  it  the  wind  of  Death  ? 

THE    SOUL. 

Is  it  the  perishing  lamentation  of  the  dead? 

THE    PHANTOM. 

I  see  vast  avenues  penetrating  the  darkness 
of  the  wood. 

THE    SOUL. 

And  there  is  no  one  there  ?  There  is  nought 
visible  ? 

THE    PHANTOM. 

No  shadow  moves.  No  branch  stirs.  But 
always,  always,  leaves  are  falling :  shadowless, 
soundless. 


Finis.  13 


THE   SOUL. 

Let  us  go  back  :  let  us  go  back  !  It  may 
be  that  in  the  Grave  there  is  a  place  of  rest ! 

THE    PHANTOM. 

I  see  the  portals  no  more.     A  mist  has  risen 

THE    SOUL. 

What  lies  behind  us? 

THE   PHANTOM. 

Dim  avenues.  No  shadow  moves.  No 
branch  stirs.  But  always,  always,  leaves  are 
falling :  shadowless,  soundless. 

THE   SOUL. 

Which  way  came  we  ? 

THE   PHANTOM. 

I  know  not. 

THE   SOUL. 

Whither  go  we  ? 

THE    PHANTOM. 

I  know  not. 

THE   SOUL. 

Did  we  perish  ere  we  entered  the  dark  way 
of  the  Grave  ? 

THE    PHANTOM. 

The  body  died. 


14  Vistas. 

THE   SOUL. 

[Terrified.']     Who  art  thou? 

THE   PHANTOM. 

Thou. 

[The  Soul  of  the  Man  staggers  wildly  away, 
with  outstretched  arms,  with  lips  moving 
in  agony,  but  silent.  The  Phantom  of  the 
Man  stands  motionless.  In  a  brief  while 
the  Soul  has  wandered  in  a  circle  back  to 
the  place  whence  it  started.] 

THE   PHANTOM. 

The  shadows  deepen.     Let  us  go. 

THE   SOUL. 

\_In  the  bitterness  of  anguish.']      I  am  as  a 

leaf  blown  by  the  wind. 

[They  move  through  the  gloom  of  a  vast 
avenue.  There  is  no  sound,  no  stir,  no 
shadow,  though  ever  there  are  falling  leaves 
that  fade  into  the  under-darkness.  From 
afar,  within  the  hollow  of  the  wood,  there 
comes  a  faint  sighing,  that  is  as  the  sea  in 
calm  or  as  a  wind  that  swoons  upon  the 
pastures,  but  is  not  any  wind  that  breathes 
on  any  sea.] 

THE  SOUL. 
Doth  it  grow  more  dark  ? 

THE    PHANTOM. 

There  is  no  change.  It  is  neither  day  nor 
night.  But  far  away  the  avenues  reach  into 
utter  blackness. 


Finis.  15 


THE    SOUL. 

Doth  a  wind  blow  in  the  Shadow  of  Death  ? 

THE    PHANTOM. 

No  wind  bloweth  through  the  Hollow  Land, 
though  from  the  darkness  beyond  cometh  a 
faint  sighing. 

THE    SOUL. 

Dead  prayers  —  dead  hopes  —  dead  dreams  ! 

[A  long  silence :  and  still  the  twain  move 
down  the  sombre  avenues  of  the  wood. 
There  is  no  sound,  no  stir —  only  the  fall  of 
leaves  forever  and  ever.] 

THE    PHANTOM. 

A  great  weakness  is  come  upon  me.  I  can 
fare  no  further. 

THE    SOUL. 

\_Terrified.~]  Leave  me  not  alone  !  Leave 
me  not !     Leave  me  not ! 

THE   PHANTOM. 

Behold,  another  cometh.     I  perish. 

[The  Soul  stretcheth  out  its  hands  to  its  fel- 
low, but  nought  can  stay  the  fading  and 
the  falling  of  the  leaf,  from  another  ave- 
nue come  two  figures,  the  one  leading  the 
other.] 

THE    PHANTOM    OF   THE    WOMAN. 

I  am  weary  of  the  long  quest.  As  a  leaf 
goeth  before  the  wind,  I  go. 


1 6  Vistas. 

THE    SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN. 

Leave  me  not  alone  !    Leave  me  not !    Leave 

me  not ! 

[The  Soul  of  the  Woman  stretcheth  out  its 
hands  to  its  fellow,  but  nought  can  stay  the 
fading  and  the  falling  of  the  leaf.] 

THE   SOUL   OF    THE    MAN. 

[  Whispering. ,]     O  Death,  give  me  thy  sting  ! 
O  Grave,  suffer  me  to  be  thy  victim  ! 

THE    SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN. 

Where   art  thou?     Where    art   thou  —  thou 
who  wast  myself? 

[The  Soul  of  the  Man  stops,  trembles,  listens 
intently.  Through  the  profound  silence  the 
leaves  fall,  but  none  seeth  ;  for  the  Soul  of 
the  Man  is  blind,  and  blind  the  Soul  of  the 
Woman.] 

THE    SOUL    OF   THE    MAN. 

\_In  deep  awe.]     Doth  aught  pass  by? 

[Profound  silence.] 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   MAN. 

For  the  love  of  life,  I  beseech  thee,  art  thou, 
who  art  in  the  silence,  even  as  I  am  ? 

[Profound  silence.] 

THE    SOUL   OF   THE   MAN. 

[/«  terror."]     It  is  Death. 

[Profound  silence.] 


Finis.  17 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE    WOMAN. 

[In  a  low  whisper.~\     At  last !     At  last  ! 

[Slowly  the  Soul  of  the  Woman  advances. 
The  Soul  of  the  Man  listens  intently,  and 
an  awful  fear  is  upon  him.] 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   MAN. 

Speak,  thou  that  comest  ! 

[There  is  a  faint  echo  as  of  a  rustling  sound.] 

It  is  leaves  blown  by  the  wind  ! 

[There  is  an  echo  as  of  a  rustling  sound, 
nearer,  and  nearer,  and  nearer.] 

What  art  thou  ? 

[The  faint  rustling  steps  are  close  by.  With 
tremulous,  groping  hands  the  Soul  of  the 
Man  moves  away,  and  then,  paralyzed  with 
terror,  goes  no  further.  He  hears  the  faint 
steps  encircling  him,  slowly,  slowly.  It  is 
as  of  one  groping  blindly.] 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN. 

[  Whispering^     It  is  he  ! 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   MAN. 

Who  spoke?     Who  comes?     Oh,  my  God, 

why  hast  Thou  forsaken  me? 

[A  low,  thin  sighing  from  afar  in  the  darkness 
of  the  wood,  as  though  of  all  dead  prayers, 
dead  hopes,  dead  dreams.] 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   MAN. 

[  Crying  shrilly  in  his  terror, .]     Who  comes  ? 

Who  comes? 

[The  Soul  of  the  Woman  draws  nigh,  till  it 
stands  beside  the  other.      Then  with  out- 


1 8  Vistas. 

stretched  arms  she  gropes  for  him  whom 
she  seeketh.  The  Soul  of  the  Man  cowers, 
sobbing  in  agony.] 

THE   SOUL    OF   THE   WOMAN. 

Thou  knowest. 

THE    SOUL   OF   THE    MAN. 

Oh,  God  !     Oh,  God  ! 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN. 

Yea,  even  so   at  the  last,  for  death  cometh 
unto  all. 

THE    SOUL    OF   THE    MAN. 

Have    pity   upon    me,   Agatha  !     Hast    thou 
come  to  slay? 

THE    SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN. 

Thou  knowest. 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE    MAN. 

Death  !     Death  ! 

THE    SOUL    OF   THE    WOMAN. 

I  have  waited  long. 

THE    SOUL   OF   THE    MAN. 

My  sin  —  my  sin  —  is  there  no  expiation  ? 

THE   SOUL    OF   THE   WOMAN. 

Yea,  verily,  at  the  last. 

THE    SOUL   OF   THE    MAN. 

Oh,  inner  heart  of  hell  ! 


Finis.  19 


THE    SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN. 

There  is  no  heaven  and  no  hell  but  upon  the 
earth.  And  unto  some  is  heaven,  and  unto 
some  is  hell :  but  woe  unto  those  by  whom  hell 
is  wrought  for  another,  for  his  end  is  undying 
death  and  the  horror  of  the  grave. 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE    MAN. 

Have  mercy  upon  me  ! 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN. 

Thou  wert  my  hell. 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   MAN. 

Have  mercy  upon  me  ! 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE    WOMAN. 

Thou  didst  take  the  fresh  life  and  pollute  it 

with  evil  —  thou  didst  seek  me  out  to  defile  me 

—  thou  didst  fling  me  into  the  mire  and  trample 

upon  me  —  thou  didst  laugh  me  to  scorn  and 

drag  me  through  the  depths  —  and  at  the  last, 

when  once,  only  once,  one  gleam  of  brightness, 

one  gleam  of  joy,  came  to  me,  thou  didst  foul 

it  as  death  corrupts  the  carrion  of  the  body,  and 

didst  work   for  me  woe   within  woe,   and  hell 

within  hell. 

[The  Soul  of  the  Man  suddenly  throws  his 
arms  on  high  as  though  to  ward  a  blow : 
then  stoops,  and  flees  like  the  wind  down 
a  sombre  avenue  of  the  obscure  wood.  For 
minutes,  for  hours  —  he  knoweth  not,  he 
careth  not  —  he  goeth  thus.  Then,  all  at 
once,  he  stops ;  for  nearer,  nearer,  he  hears 


20  Vistas. 

the  sighing  from  the  midmost  of  the  dark- 
ness, the  sighing  as  of  dead  prayers,  dead 
hopes,  dead  dreams.  Suddenly  there  is  a 
faint  sound  as  of  blown  leaves.  It  draweth 
near.] 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN. 

For  thou  hast  wrought  woe  within  woe  for 
me,  and  hell  within  hell. 

[The  Soul  of  the  Man  staggers  dumbly, 
stretches  forth  unavailing  arms,  and  know- 
eth  the  agony  of  the  second  death.  Then 
wildly,  and  with  a  triumphing  cry — ] 

At  the   least  I  slew    him  —  at    the    least    I 
strangled  him  where  he  lay  ! 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE   WOMAN. 

Was  it  thus  ? 

[With  a  strange  perishing  cry  the  Soul  of  the 
Woman  springs  upon  the  other,  and,  clasp- 
ing with  both  hands,  strangles  the  Soul  of 
the  Man. 

And  in  the  sombre  twilight  of  the  vast  ave- 
nues of  the  wood  there  is  no  sound ;  and  in 
the  darkness  nought  stirs,  save  the  leaves 
falling  forever,  forever.  Only  from  afar,  in 
the  uttermost  darkness,  there  is  a  low  sigh- 
ing, that  passeth  not,  that  changeth  not, 
and  is  as  the  vanishing  breath  of  dead 
prayers,  dead  hopes,  dead  dreams.] 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion. 


SlRIA 

Voire  amour  lui  serait  Forage. 

Nurh 
ye  Faime. 

Siria 
Malheur  a  lui. 

Nurh 
ye  Palme. 

Siria 
Malheur  a  vous. 

Le  Barbare. 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion. 


[A  small,  dark  room,  opening  from  the  Sac- 
risty of  the  Church  of  Notre  Dame,  in  the 
village  of  Haut-Pre,  on  the  French  side  of 
the  Meuse.  In  the  room,  which  is  window- 
less,  there  is  no  light  save  the  dull,  yellow 
flicker  from  an  iron  cruse  suspended  from 
the  low  roof.  Nought  else  is  visible  save  a 
small  iron  bell  jutting  out  above  the  door, 
connected  with  the  outside  by  a  string  pass- 
ing through  a  hole  in  the  highest  panel, 
and,  on  the  further  wall,  a  heavy  metal  cru- 
cifix. On  the  floor  a  man,  in  a  priest's 
robes,  lies  at  full  length,  face  downward. 
Every  now  and  then  a  convulsive  shudder 
passes  over  his  frame.  He  has  lain  thus 
for  long,  uttering  no  words,  but  praying 
silently  with  a  passion  that  rends  him.  At 
last,  with  a  low,  sobbing  sigh,  Hilarion  the 
priest  rises,  stands  passively  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  slowly  advances  till  he  is 
close  to  the  crucifix.] 


HILARION. 

Wilt  Thou  not  hearken  to  my  cry,  O  Thou 

who  savest? 

[A  faint,  dull  resonance  of  his  voice  haunts  the 
room  for  a  few  moments ;  then  silence  as 
of  the  tomb.] 


24  Vistas. 

HILARION. 

[  With  broken,  supplicating  voiced  O  Thou 
who  hast  passioned,  wilt  Thou  not  have  pity 
upon  me  in  this  mine  agony?  Lord,  Lord,  wilt 
Thou  not  save?  Lo,  I  am  younger  than  Thou 
wert  when  Thy  bloody  sweat  fell  in  Gethsemane  ! 
Have  compassion  upon  me,  O  Christ  compas- 
sionate !  I  am  but  a  man,  and  the  burden  of 
my  manhood,  the  bitter  burden  of  my  youth, 
is  heavy  upon  me. 

[The  dull,  fading  echo  of  a  human  voice;  then 
silence  as  of  the  grave.] 

HILARION. 

Speak,  Lord. 

Show  me  a  sign  ! 

O  Thou  who  wast  crucified  for  me,  hearken  ! 

0  Friend,  O  Brother,  O  Heavenly  Love,  I 
beseech  Thee  ! 

Jesus,  Son  of  Mary,  wilt  Thou  not  hear? 

1  cry  to  Thee,  O  Son  of  God  ! 
I  cry  to  Thee,  O  Son  of  Man  ! 

[He  bows  his  head,  and  waits  for  he  knows 
not  what,  his  lips  twitching,  and  hands 
clasping  and  unclasping.    Then,  suddenly :] 

What  wilt  Thou,  O  Son  of  Man  ?  Am  I  not 
Thy  Brother? 

[Leaning  forward,  and  speaking  slowly  :] 

Art  Thou  dead  indeed,  O  Thou  who  wast 

crucified  ? 

[The  dull  beat  of  sound  around  the  walls : 
then  silence  as  of  deep  night.] 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion.    25 

I  perish  ! 

Stretch  forth  Thine  hand  and  save  ! 

I  perish  ! 

[Faintly  round  the  tomb-like  walls  breathes  the 
echo  of  the  word :  Perish.  Then  silence, 
chill  and  still  as  death.] 

I  am  but  a  man,  O  God  ! 

I  am  but  a  man,  O  Christ ! 

My  sin  is  oversweet,  and  the  world  calls  me, 

and  I  die  daily,  hourly,  yea,  every  bitter  moment ! 

[With  a  fierce  cry,  and  wild  gesture  with  his 
arms :] 

What  wouldst   Thou?     Doth   not   my  neck 

break  beneath  the  yoke  ? 

[Suddenly  he  throws  his  priestly  robe  from  off 
him.  Beneath  he  has  but  a  garment  of  hair 
and  coarse  serge,  girt  round  the  waist  by  a 
long  rope  heavily  knotted.  This  also  he 
removes,  and  then  winds  one  end  of  the 
rope  round  his  right  wrist.  With  swift 
sweep  he  swings  the  knotted  rope  above 
his  head,  and  brings  it  down  upon  his 
quivering  sides.  Slowly  and  steadily  the 
knotted  rope  rises,  circles,  falls ;  moment 
after  moment,  minute  after  minute.  At 
the  last,  one,  two,  three  of  the  great  weals 
along  the  man's  back  and  sides  break,  and 
the  flesh  hangs  purple-red,  and  the  blood 
runs  in  thin  scarlet  streams  down  his 
thighs.  Then,  with  a  low  cry,  he  throws 
down  the  rope  and  sinks  on  his  knees, 
quivering  with  agony  and  exhaustion.] 

HILARION. 

[  With  a  low,  choking  sob.~]  "  Come  unto 
Me,  ye  that  are  weary  and  heavy-laden,  and  I 
will  give  you  rest." 


i6  Vistas. 

[The  bell  over  the  door  clangs  loudly.  The 
priest  slowly  rises,  puts  on  his  hair  shirt 
and  stanches  the  blood  as  best  he  can, 
girds  the  rope  about  his  waist,  and  dons 
again  his  long  black  robes.  He  is  calm 
now,  and  deathly  pale.  Before  he  leaves 
the  Penitents'  room  he  makes  a  grave  obei- 
sance before  the  crucifix,  but  in  silence  and 
with  downcast  eyes.  He  goes  forth,  and 
through  the  Sacristy  to  a  side  door,  open- 
ing on  to  a  wide,  deserted  village  street. 
He  stands  in  the  doorway,  looking  out  as 
in  a  dream.  The  day  is  far  spent,  and  the 
shadows  gather  and  lengthen.  In  an  old 
inn,  opposite,  from  an  open  window,  comes 
a  woman's  joyous  laughter.  The  priest 
does  not  move,  and  seems  neither  to  hear 
nor  to  see.  A  little  later,  the  deep  voice  of 
a  man  slowly  chants  to  a  strange,  monoto- 
nous tune  :] 

"  Elle  est  retrouvee. 
Quoi  ?     Letemite. 
C'est  la  mer  allee. 
Avec  le  soldi." x 

[The  priest  Hilarion  abruptly  turns  away,  mut- 
tering, as  though  in  fierce  pain,  Oh,  God ! 
Oh,  God  !  He  passes  into  the  Sacristy,  and 
stands  idly  by  a  desk,  brooding  on  the  thing 
that  is  in  his  mind.  A  bell  suddenly  rings 
again.  The  sacristan  enters  and  says  that 
a  woman  is  at  the  third  confessional,  and 
asks  for  Father  Hilarion.  He  slowly  leaves, 
and  walks  down  the  aisle  toward  his  place, 
with  bent  head  and  heavy  steps.  As  he 
reaches  the  box  he  looks  back  through  the 
church  toward  the  altar,  where  a  young  priest 
is  leisurely  lighting  the  candles.  Below  his 
breath  he  mutters :] 

1  "Les  Illuminations." 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion.    27 

"  C'est  la  nier  allee 
Avec  le  so  lei  I" 

[He  enters  the  box  and  seats  himself.  A 
woman  —  veiled  —  tall,  young,  and  with  a 
figure  of  strange  grace  and  beauty,  is  on 
her  knees.] 

HILARION. 

[Quietly. ~\     My  daughter. 

THE   WOMAN. 

[Hurriedly.]     My  father,  my  heart  is  .  .  . 

HILARION. 

[Abruptly  rising,  but  seating  himself  again.] 
Anais  ! 

ANA'iS. 

Yes,  Father  Hilarion,  it  is  I.  No,  no,  I 
cannot  call  you  so  ! 

HILARION. 

Hush  !  Anais,  God  is  pitiful.  We  will  pray 
for  His  help,  and  that  of  His  holy  Son,  and 
that  of  the  Blessed  Mary. 

ANA'iS. 

There  is  no  help  but  in  ourselves. 

HILARION. 

Here  we  are  as  shadows  in  a  fevered  dream. 

The  voice  of  Eternity.  .  .  . 

[Stops  abruptly,  as  in  his  ears  rises  an  echo  of 
the  song:] 


28  Vistas. 

"  JOeternite.  .  .  . 
Cest  la  mer  allee 
Avec  le  soleil.'" 

ANA'iS. 

My  heart  breaks.  The  time  has  come :  I 
must  speak  —  and  you,  Hilarion —  No,  no, 
you  must  stay  !  Father  Hilarion,  I  command 
you,  as  my  priest,  as  my  spiritual  director  !  I 
must  confess. 

[She  removes  her  veil,  and  in  Hilarion's  face 
a  flush  rises  and  fades  as  he  looks  again 
upon  a  face  of  such  rare,  surpassing  beauty 
that  even  in  dreams,  before  he  first  saw  it, 
he  had  never  beheld  one  lovelier,  aught  so 
lovely. 

An  acolyte,  with  a  tall  wax  taper,  passing  by 
again,  hears  the  swift  whispering,  the  low, 
ardent  tones  of  a  woman's  voice :  and, 
once  or  twice,  the  deep  murmur  of  Father 
Hilarion.] 

ANA'iS. 

Better  than  the  dream  of  heaven  !  He  is 
my  paradise  ! 

HILARION. 

My  daughter,  this  love  is  madness  ! 

ANAl'S. 

Then  better  so.  I  am  mad.  Oh,  are  you  a 
man  ?  Do  you  not  understand  ?  I  love  him  — 
I  love  him  —  I  love  him  ! 


The   Passion   of  Pere   Hilarion.    29 

HILARION. 

My  daughter,  you  must  tell  me  all.  What  is 
this  secret  thing  that  lies  betwixt  you  and  — 
and  this  man? 

ana'i's. 
Hilarion  ! 

HILARION. 

[Troubled.]     Ana'is,  my  daughter  ! 

ANAlS. 

Hilarion  ! 

[Hilarion  half  rises,  then  seats  himself  again. 
His  face  has  grown  paler,  and  his  hand 
trembles.] 

ANAlS. 

Oh,  my  God,  how  I  love  him  !  What  is  the 
world  to  me?  What  is  this  paradise  you  dream 
of,  this  heaven  you  preach?  He  is  my  heaven, 
my  paradise,  my  heart's  delight,  my  life  itself, 
my  very  soul ! 

[Ana'i's  bends  forward,  but  hides  her  face  from 
Hilarion,  and  sobs  convulsively.  The  priest 
stares  fixedly  above  her  head  into  the  gloom 
of  the  church  beyond  the  uncurtained  door- 
way.] 

HILARION. 

\In  a  low  voiced  Most  Blessed  Virgin- 
Mother,  have  pity  ! 

[There  is  silence  for  some  moments.  Ana'is 
slowly  lifts  her  head  and  looks  at  the  priest, 
who  still  stares  fixedly  into  the  gloom.] 


3° 


Vistas. 


ANAlS. 


[/;/  a  faint  whisper  i\  Beyond  words  !  Be- 
yond thought ! 

HILARION. 

Mary,  Mother  of  Pity,  hearken  ! 

ANAlS. 

\_Quivering,  as  she  clasps  her  hands  together^ 
Life  is  a  dream,  and  the  dream  is  brief.  .  O 
Love,  Love,  Love  ! 

HILARION. 

Mater  Consolatrix,  save,  oh,  save  ! 

[The  grating,  long  loose,  gives  way,  and  falls 
with  a  clang  upon  the  stone  floor.  Trem- 
ulously the  priest  lets  his  hand  fall  upon 
the  head  of  Anais.  Suddenly  she  takes 
his  icy  hand  in  hers,  aflame  as  with  fever  ] 

HILARION. 

My  daughter,  it  is  a  sin  to  love  so  wildly. 
Only  to  God.  .  .  . 

ANAlS. 

\In  a  loud,  mocking  voice.~\     Only  to  God  ! 

HILARION. 

Hush,  my  daughter.     I  .  .  . 

ANAlS. 

Hilarion  ! 


The   Passion  of  Pere   Hilarion.    31 


HILARION. 

[Speaking  low  and  hurriedly.~\  My  daugh- 
ter, I  am  a  priest.  Thou  must  speak  to  me  as 
to  thy  spiritual  father.     I  .  .  . 

ANA1S. 

Three  years  ago,  Hilarion  .  .  . 

HILARION. 

Anai's,  Ana'is  ! 

[Anais  bows  her  head  over  the  priest's  hand, 
and  her  lips  are  pressed  against  it.  His 
face  is  deathly  pale,  and  on  his  forehead 
are  drops  of  sweat.  With  a  sudden  move- 
ment he  extricates  his  hand  from  her 
grasp.] 

ANAiS. 
[Murmuring.']      It  is  killing  me  ! 

HILARION. 

[With  a  great  effort^]  My  daughter,  there 
is  neither  rest,  nor  peace,  nor  beauty,  nor  hap- 
piness, nor  content,  nor  any  weal  whatever  in 
this  world,  save  in  .  .  . 

[Ana'is  raises  her  head  and  looks  at  him.  He 
speaks  no  further.  There  is  deep  silence 
in  the  church,  save  for  the  shuffling  step  of 
an  old  beggar-woman,  who  slowly  moves 
through  the  dusk,  and  at  last  sinks  wearily 
on  her  knees.] 

THE    BEGGAR-WOMAN. 

[Repeating  a  prayer  of  the  Church.']  "  For 
this  is  Thy  Kingdom,  and  we  are  Thy  children, 
O  heavenly  King  !  " 


32  Vistas. 


HILARION. 

[Mechanically.']     And  we  are  Thy  children  ! 

ANA1S. 

[  With  a  low,  shuddering  voice."]  And  this  is 
Thy  Kingdom  ! 

[Hilarion  rises  suddenly,  as  if  about  to  go.] 

HILARION. 

My  daughter,  confess  to  the  Blessed  Mary 
herself.     She  will  give  you  peace. 

ANA1S. 

There  is  no  peace  for  me.  I  love  him  with 
all  my  heart  and  all  my  soul  and  all  my  life, 
and  I  know  that  he  loves  me  beyond  all  his 
dreams  of  heaven  and  hell. 

HILARION. 

[Hoarsely.]     Who  is  this  man? 

ANA'iS. 

He  is  a  priest. 

HILARION. 

[Murmuring,  half  to  himself.]  "  He  who 
transgresseth  in  this  wise  shall  go  down  into 
the  pit,  and  his  undying  death  shall  be  terror 
beyond  terror,  and  horror  within  horror." 

ANAl'S. 

And  for  one  kiss  from  his  lips  I  would  barter 
this  life ;  for  one  hour  of  love  I  would  exchange 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion.    33 

this  dream  of  a  Paradise  that  shall  not  be.  He 
is  my  day  of  sunshine  and  joy,  he  is  my  night 
of  mystery  and  beatitude. 

HILARION. 

\Tre?nbling^\  The  curse  shall  lie  heavy 
upon  him.  .  .  . 

ANA1S. 

Oh,  joy  of  life  ! 

HILARION. 

And  upon  you  ! 

ANA1S. 

Oh,  the  glad  sunlight,  the  free  air,  the  singing 
of  birds ;  everywhere,  everywhere,  the  pulse  of 
the  world  ! 

HILARION. 

All  that  live  shall  die. 

ANAi'S. 

And  the  dead  know  not :  and  if  perchance 
they  dream,  it  is  Life. 

[The    voice    of    the    Beggar-woman    sounds 
hoarsely  in  the  deepening  gloom :] 

"  For  in  this  life  nought  availeth,  and  only 
in  the  grave —  " 

ANA'iS. 

[  Whispering,  as  she  draws  closer  to  the  aper- 
ture.] Only  in  the  grave  !  —  O  Heart  of 
Love  ! 


34  Vistas. 


HILARION. 


\In  a  strained  voice. ~\      And   this    man  — 
this  priest? 

ANA1S. 

Thou  knowest  him. 

HILARION. 

Better  for  him  that  he  had  never  been  born. 
Better  — 

ANAIS. 

\_In   a    low,     thrilling     voice.~\       Hilarion ! 
Hilarion  ! 

[The  priest  trembles  as  though  in  an  ague 
Anais  again  whispers,  "  Hilarion  !  "] 

HILARION. 

[Hurriedly.']     My  daughter,  I  must  go.     I 
have  to  officiate. 

ANAIS. 

For  the  last  time,  Hilarion. 

HILARION. 

Go,  woman  !     We  are  in  the  hands  of  God. 
I  — 

ANAIS. 

I  die  to-night. 

HILARION. 

Anais  ! 


The  Passion   of  Pere   Hilarion.    25 

ANA1S. 

[With  a  passionate  sob.]  My  darling,  my 
darling  !     O  Love,  Love,  Love  ! 

[A  bell  clangs  suddenly,  and  a  young  priest 
enters  the  church  from  behind  the  altar, 
bearing  a  light.] 

THE   BEGGAR-WOMAN. 

[Mumbling  loudly,  as  she  rises  to  her  feet.'] 
"  For  thine  is  the  Kingdom,  the  Power,  and 
the  Glory  —  " 

ANAlS. 

[  Whispering  eagerly.]     Where  ?     Where  ? 

HILARION. 

[Slowly,  and  as  if  in  a  dream.]  By  the 
bend  of  the  river  at  Grand-Pre  :  where  the 
Calvary  of  the  seven  willows  is  :  an  hour  after 
moonrise. 

[Ana'is  hesitates  a  moment,  then  abruptly 
turns  away  and  leaves  the  church.  Hila- 
rion passes  into  the  aisle :  walking  slowly, 
with  bent  head,  and  lips  moving  as  though 
in  prayer.  The  young  priest  comes  toward 
him.] 

THE    YOUNG    PRIEST. 

Is  it  well  with  thee,  Hilarion,  my  brother? 
Thou  seemest  in  the  shadow  of  trouble. 

HILARION. 

[Suddenly  raising  his  head,  and  with  a  clear, 
ringing  voiced]     It  is  well  with  me. 


36  Vistas. 

THE   YOUNG  PRIEST. 

And  thou  hast  peace? 

HILARION. 

Yea,  at  the  last  I  have  found  peace. 

THE   YOUNG   PRIEST. 

May,  too,  the  joy  that  likewise  passeth  under- 
standing — 

HILARION. 

[Interrupting,  in  a  strange  voice.']  Verily, 
it  also  hath  come  unto  me  at  the  last. 

[He  passes  on,  with  head  erect  and  flashing 
eyes.     The  young  priest  looks  after  him.] 

THE  YOUNG  PRIEST. 

He  is  a  dreamer  —  but  a  saint. 

HILARION. 

\To  himself  as  he  passes  beyond  the  altar, .] 
Yea,  the  joy  that  likewise  passeth  under- 
standing. 

[The  choristers  are  practising  their  chant  of 
the  day.] 

Mere  celeste  de  la  Pitie  I 
De  toute  Eternite. 

HILARION  {passes  muttering) . 

"  Elle  est  retrouvee. 
Quoil     L?  eternite  —  " 

[The  choristers  singing :] 


The  Passion  of  Pere   Hilarion.    37 

On  a  retrouve 

O  Mere  bien-aimee, 

Ton  doux  conseil  — 

hilarion  {slowly,  as  he  passes  from  sight). 

"  C  'est  la  mer  allee 
Avec  le  solei'l." 

[Three  hours  later.      The  church  is   closed. 
The  village  is  swathed  in  darkness,  save 
for  a  few  lights  here  and  there.    Across  the 
great  meadow  that  divides  the  village  from 
the   river  moves  a   tall   figure  clothed   in 
priest's   robes.      The   dew   upon   the  high 
grasses  glistens  with  a  faint  sheen  where 
swept  by  his  skirts.     A  few  emerald-green 
fireflies  wander  hither  and  thither  through 
the  gloom.     A  breath  of  wind  comes  and 
goes,  bearing  with  it  a  vague  fragrance  of 
hay  and  roses  and  meadow-sweet.     Once 
the  priest  stops  and  listens  5  but  he  hears 
nothing  save  the  distant  barking  of  a  dog, 
and,  close   by,  the  stealthy   wash   of  flow- 
ing water.     Beyond  the  marshes  of  Haut- 
Pre  the  moon  has  risen.     The  marsh-water 
gleams    like    amber    in    torchlight.      The 
priest  moves  on.     As  he  draws  nearer  the 
river  he  sees,  looming  in  a  confused  mass 
through  the  obscurity,  the  group  of  seven 
willows  in  the  front  of  which  stands    the 
great   Calvary.      A   sudden  short  essay  of 
song  thrills  through  the  dusk.     Then  the 
nightingale  is  still.  As  the  priest  approaches 
the  willows  their  upper  branches  glow  as 
with  dull  gold  in  the  welling  wave  of  moon- 
rise.     He  descries  the  high  ash-gray  mass 
of  the  Calvary  through  their  heavy  boughs, 
and,  beyond,  the   moving   blackness,  shot 
with  furtive  gleams  and  sudden  spear-like 
shafts    of    pale   light,   of    the    river.      He 
passes  the  willows  and  stops  as  he  nears  the 


38  Vistas. 

Calvary.  He  sees  no  one.  Slowly  moving 
forward,  he  stands  on  the  bank  of  the  river, 
and  looks  upon  the  dull,  obscure  flow  of  the 
water.  Suddenly  he  turns  and  goes  back 
to  the  Calvary,  which  he  faces.  A  long, 
wavering  shaft  of  moonlight  illumes  the 
woe-wrought  face  of  the  carven  Christ. 
The  priest  stands  with  crossed  arms,  star- 
ing fixedly  at  the  moonlit  features  of  the 
God.  The  green  fireflies  wander  fitfully 
betwixt  him  and  the  image:  he  sees  them 
not.  The  nightingale  gives  three  thrilling 
cries,  passionate  vibrations  of  forlornest 
music ;  he  hears  them  not. 
Through  the  tall  dew-drenched  grasses  be- 
yond there  is  a  soft  susurrus.  The  priest's 
ears  are  charmed,  for  still,  with  crossed 
arms,  he  stands  staring  fixedly  at  the  tor- 
tured face  of  the  dead  God.  Suddenly  he 
starts,  as,  from  beyond  the  mass  of  the 
Calvary,  a  fantastic  shadow  moves  toward 
him.  He  steps  aside,  and  through  the  thin, 
moon-illumined  mist  behind  he  sees  Ana'i's 
approach,  the  moonshine  turning  her  hair 
to  pale  bronze  and  making  her  face  as  one 
of  the  water-lilies  in  the  river.] 

AXAlS. 
\_Eagerly  advancing.']      Hilarion  ! 

HILARION. 

I  am  here. 

ANA1S. 

[  With  fierce  fervor^  Let  the  priest  die  ! 
It  is  you  —  it  is  you,  Hilarion  —  whom  I  meet 
here.     At  last !     At  last ! 

[Hilarion  is  silent,  and  neither  advances  nor 
makes  any  gesture.  Anais  hesitates,  then 
comes  close  up  to  him  and  looks  into  his 
eyes.] 


The  Passion  of  Pere  Hilarion.    39 

ANAl'S. 

Hilarion,  is  it  life  or  death  ? 

[Abruptly  the  nightingale  sends  a  low  cres- 
cendo note  throbbing  through  the  moon- 
light.] 

HILARION. 

[  Whispering    and   slowly. .]       Life  —  or  — 

death. 

[With  rapture  swells  the  song  of  the  nightin- 
gale, intoxicated  with  a  mad  ecstasy.] 

ANAlS. 

[In  a  low  voice.-]     Ah,  Hilarion,  have  you 
forgotten  ? 

[Suddenly,  with  rapid  diminutions,  the  night- 
ingale's song  sinks  to  a  thin,  aerial  music : 
abruptly  wells  forth  again:  and  then,  in  a 
moment,  ceases  absolutely.  There  is  a 
faint  beat  of  wings,  a  rustle,  and  then  the 
bird  swoops  in  slanting  flight  from  the  mid- 
foliage,  circles  twice  round  the  willow,  and 
swiftly,  as  though  an  arrow,  flies  through 
the  dusk  across  the  river.  Hilarion  starts 
as  though  awakened  from  a  trance.] 

HILARION. 

[  Wildly.']     Anais  ! 

ANA1S. 

Hilarion  !     O  my  darling,  my  darling  ! 

[She  springs  to  his  open  arms,  and,  as  he 
bends  over  her,  kissing  her  passionately, 
she  sees  by  the  moongleam  reflected  from 
the  Calvary  how  deathly  white  he  is.] 


4<o  Vistas. 


HILARION. 


[  With  a  hoarse  sob.~]  Heart  of  my  heart  — 
soul  of  my  soul  —  my  life  —  my  joy  —  my 
heaven  —  my  hell !     Anais  !  —  Anais  ! 

ANAIS. 

[Extricating  herself  from  his  savage  grasp.] 
Is  it  life  or  —  death  —  Hilarion  ? 

HILARION. 

They  are  the  same  :  it  matters  not. 

ANAIS. 

The  nightingale  has  gone  to  his  mate  — 
yonder  ! 

HILARION. 

Dear,  if  only  — 

ANAIS. 

In  the  cottage,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river 
—  Hilarion,  there  is  no  one  there :  it  waits 
my  brother  Raoul's  return  :  his  clothes  would 
fit  you  —  he  will  not  need  them  for  months 
yet  —  he  is  still  under  arms.  If  they  find  your 
priest's  robes  in  the  river,  they  will  know  — 

HILARION. 

SstJ     What  is  that? 

ANAIS. 

It  is  the  night-wind  coming  over  the  hay- 
fields  from  afar. 


The   Passion  of  Pere   Hilarion.    41 

HILARION. 

Did  no  one  speak? 

ANA1S. 

There  is  no  one  to  speak.     We  are  alone. 
None  sees  us  but  God. 

HILARION. 

\_With   a  swift  shudder.~\     No  one  sees  us 
but  God. 

ANAi'S. 

And  He  —  He  is  so  far  away.     He  speaks 
not  —  He  breathes  not  —  He  must  be  dead. 

HILARION. 

[  Wearily. .]     He  speaks  not  —  He  breathes 
not  —  He  must  be  dead. 

ANA1S. 

Is  it  not  so?     For  — 

HILARION. 

It  is  even  so. 

ANAi'S. 

And,  dear,  you  have  dreamed  a  long,  bitter 
dream. 

HILARION. 

Ay,  a  long  dream. 

ANAi'S. 

And  the  dawn  is  at  hand.     At  last,  at  last ! 
Oh,  Hilarion  ! 


42 

HILARION. 


Vistas. 
Thou  sayest  it. 

ANAIS. 

[Suddenly   sinking   to  her  knees,  sobbingly.~\ 
My  darling,  forgive  me  !     Hilarion,  kill  me  ! 

HILARION. 

Sstt     What  is  that? 

ANAIS. 

It  is  the  night-wind  creeping  over  the 
marshes  of  Haut-Pr£. 

HILARION. 

[Suddenly.']  Life  !  Life  !  beautiful  Life  ! 
Anais,  let  us  go. 

[He  clasps  her  left  hand  in  his  right,  and  both 
walk  to  the  river's  bank.] 

HILARION. 

Can  we  reach  the  other  side  in  this  high 
flood? 

ANAi'S. 

Yes,  by  swimming.  Hark  !  there  is  no  time 
to  lose.  I  hear,  across  the  marshes,  the  bells 
of  Urle.     The  floods  are  rising. 

[Hilarion  slowly  discards  his  priest's  robes, 
and  then,  as  by  an  afterthought,  strips 
himself  also  of  his  penitent's  garment  and 
stands  forth  naked  in  the  moonlight.  He 
looks  broodingly  into  the  dark  flood  of 
water  moving  stealthily  past.  Anais  rapidly 
throws  off  her  things.  He  turns  just  as  she 
stands  forth  in  all  "her  naked  beauty,  like  a 
vision  of  embodied  moonlight.] 


The   Passion  of  Pere   Hilarion.    43 

HILARION. 

Anais  ! 

ANAlS. 

Because  I  too  am  drowned. 

[Hilarion  hesitates  a  moment,  then  steps  to 
her,  takes  her  in  his  arms,  kisses  her  wildly 
again  and  again.  Then  saying  simply,  Come, 
he  clasps  her  hand  and  they  both  enter  the 
water.  When  Anais  is  breast-high  they 
stop.  Hilarion  stoops  and  kisses  her  long 
upon  the  lips.] 

HILARION. 
If  there  be  no  morrow  — 

ANAIS. 

Dear,  with  you  I  fear  neither  life  nor  death. 
Neither  death  nor  life. 

[They  enter  the  black  shadow  of  midstream, 
and  silently  swim  side  by  side,  till  at  last 
they  gain  the  opposite  bank.  There,  hand 
in  hand,  they  stand  a  brief  while,  breathing 
heavily,  and  looking  back  upon  the  boun- 
dary they  have  crossed  forever.  As  the 
moonshine  slowly  waves  northward,  Anais, 
turning,  descries  the  vague  outline  of  her 
brother's  unoccupied  cottage.  Stealthily 
she  withdraws  her  hand  from  Hilarion's 
clasp  and  noiselessly  slips  from  his  side, 
through  the  deep  shadows,  toward  the  cot- 
tage. He  stands  alone,  white  in  the  moon- 
light, passive  as  a  statue.  Suddenly  he 
gives  a  hoarse  cry,  leaps  down  the  bank 
and  into  the  water  again.  With  swift,  fierce 
strokes  he  swims  rapidly  across  the  river, 
bearing  hard  against  the  current,  but  swerv- 
ing neither  to  right  nor  to  left.    As  he  nears 


44  Vistas. 


the  opposite  bank  he  staggers,  clutching 
the  reeds  :  then,  stooping,  half-climbs,  half- 
leaps  up  the  bank,  and,  having  gained  it, 
walks  swiftly  toward  the  Calvary.  The 
moonlight  is  now  all  about  it,  except  at  the 
head  of  the  crucified  God,  which  is  in  deep 
shadow.  Hilarion  the  priest  stands  in 
front  of  the  Calvary,  staring  fixedly  up- 
ward. Slowly  he  advances,  and  stands  on 
the  highest  of  the  three  low  steps  of  the 
pedestal  of  the  cross,  and,  straining  every 
muscle,  scrutinizes  the  carven  face  of 
agony.] 

HILARION. 

\In  a  hoarse  whisper.~\     Behold,  the  God  is 

verily  dead. 

[Nothing  stirs  in  the  silence,  in  the  moonlight, 
in  the  darkness.] 

HILARION. 

Wilt  Thou  save,  even  now,  O  my  Lord  ? 

[Nothing  stirs  in  the  silence  of  the  moonlight, 
of  the  darkness.] 

HILARION. 

\_In  a  loud,  vibrant  voice."]     Wilt  Thou  save 

Thyself,   Thou    Lord   without    lordship,    Thou 

fallen  God! 

[In  the  darkness,  in  the  moonlight,  nothing 
stirs.] 

HILARION. 

[Furiousfy.']     Ah,  Thou  dead  God  ! 

[Hilarion  the  priest  leaps  forward,  and,  with 
wild  gestures  and  savage  violence,  tears 
the  crucified  figure  from  the  cross  and  hurls 


The   Passion  of  Pere   Hilarion.    45 

it  to  the  ground.  Then,  in  panting  silence, 
he  sways  to  and  fro  with  his  arms  claspt 
round  the  cross,  which  at  last  yields,  breaks, 
and  falls  to  the  ground.  He  seizes  it  and 
drags  it  to  the  bank  and  thrusts  it  into  the 
river,  silently  watching  it  sink  half  way  in 
the  ooze  of  the  reeds-  Then  returning, 
with  a  low,  triumphing  cry,  he  grasps  the 
carven  figure,  and,  having  reached  the  bank 
again,  lifts  the  image  above  his  head,  poises 
it  a  moment,  while  the  moonshine  clothes 
him  as  with  a  garment,  and  then,  with  des- 
perate fury,  hurls  it  with  a  great  effort  far 
amid-stream. 
The  moonlight  lies  like  a  white  transparent 
cloud  along  the  bank,  and  along  the  nearer 
half  of  the  flood :  on  the  further  side  the 
darkness  is  now  profound,  and  the  river 
seems  narrowed  to  a  stream.  Far  off,  in 
the  marshes,  the  frogs  croak  :  the  crickets 
in  the  distant  meadows  shrill  incessantly : 
over  the  pastures  a  fern-owl  hawks  with 
a  strange  choking  cry.  Otherwise,  silence 
and  utter  peace.  The  man  draws  himself 
up  to  his  full  height,  turns  toward  the 
unseen  village  beyond  the  great  meadow, 
silver-white  with  moonshine  and  dew,  and 
raises  his  right  arm  menacingly.  But  he 
lets  it  drop,  speaking  no  word.  Then,  turn- 
ing again,  he  moves  slowly  toward  and 
into  the  river.  The  moonlight  turns  the 
white  skin  of  his  shoulder  into  amber,  as 
he  swims  across  the  flood.  Then  he  passes 
into  the  darkness.  In  profound  darkness 
he  swims  toward  the  shore  :  in  profound 
darkness  he  scales  the  opposite  bank  : 
through  the  profound  darkness  beyond, 
his  voice,  hoarse,  yet  vibrant  and  echoing, 
calls  with  mad  joy:] 

Anais  !     Ana'is  ! 


The  Birth  of  a  Soul. 


Enter  with  me  into  the  dark  zone  of  the 
human  soul. 

Emilia  Pardo  BazXn. 


The  Birth  of  a  Soul. 


[A  bedroom,  austerely  furnished,  in  an  old 
city  of  Flanders.  To  the  left,  a  "  Spanish 
throne,"  as  such  beds  are  called  —  heavy 
with  sombre  woodwork  and  huge  all-length 
canopy ;  with  tall,  dark,  thick  curtains  at 
the  top  and  at  the  bottom ;  and  approached 
by  three  low  wooden  steps  belonging  to 
and  running  the  whole  length  of  the  bed. 
In  the  bed  a  woman,  about  to  give  birth  to 
a  child.  Kneeling  at  a  chair  betwixt  the 
head  of  the  bed  and  the  bare  table  with  dull 
green  cloth,  on  which  is  a  low-shaded  read- 
ing lamp,  is  a  man,  the  father  of  the  unborn 
child.  To  his  left,  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  also 
kneeling,  but  at  the  lowest  of  the  three 
steps  of  the  bed.  To  his  right,  kneeling  at 
a  chair  near  the  table,  a  priest.  The  door 
of  the  room,  to  the  right  behind  the  bed, 
conspicuous  by  its  black-oak  panelling.  At 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room  from  the 
bed :  to  the  right,  a  tall,  fantastically  carved 
black-oak  clock,  with  clay-white  face,  with 
hands  broken  and  dangling  this  way  and 
that :  beyond  it,  to  the  left,  in  a  deep-set 
recess,  an  old  Flemish  window.  ] 

THE   PRIEST. 

\Kneeling  at  a  chair, praying  aloud.~\   O  God, 
may  the  child  that  cometh  unto  us  from  Thee 


50  Vistas. 

be  blessed  by  Thee  to  purity  and  strength. 
May  he  come  as  a  scourge  to  the  wrong-doer, 
as  a  message  of  peace  to  the  righteous. 

THE   MAN. 

[Kneeling  at  a  chair  near  the  head  of  the 
bed,  praying  silently.']  O  God,  may  the  child 
that  is  to  be  born  to  us  not  be  a  man-child. 
Already,  already,  O  God,  the  curse  that  is 
within  me  has  descended  into  the  third  gene- 
ration. 

THE   PRIEST. 

[Praying  aloud.~\  And  if  the  child  be  a 
woman-child,  O  Lord,  may  she  be  a  lamp  of 
light  in  dark  places,  a  godly  presence  among 
the  evil. 

THE   WOMAN. 

[Praying  in  the  silence.]  O  God,  may  the 
child  that  is  within  me  not  be  a  woman-child, 
so  that  she  may  never  know  the  bitterness  of 
shame  and  all  the  heritage  of  woman's  woe. 

ANOTHER. 

[Unseen  and  unheard :  in  the  deep  shadow  at 
the  end  of  the  bed.]  Thou  living  thing  within 
the  womb,  when  thou  art  born  I  shall  dwell 
within  thee  as  thy  soul.  And  the  sin  of  the 
woman,  the  which  I  am,  shall  lie  like  a  canker- 
worm  within  thy  heart :  and  the  evil  of  the 
man,  the  which  I  am,  shall  eat  into  thy  inmost 
being.  And  thou  shalt  grow  in  corruption. 
And  thy  end  shall  be  nothingness. 


The   Birth  of  a  Soul.  51 


THE    PRIEST. 


[Aloud.}     Have  mercy,  0   God,  upon  this 
immortal  soul ! 


THE    OTHER. 


[In  the  shadow.'}  For  in  the  shadow  of 
hell  wast  thou  conceived,  and  out  of  the  horror 
of  the  grave  I  come. 

THE   SISTER   OF   MERCY. 

[Aloud,  kneeling  betwixt  the  table  and  the 
bed.}  Amen  !  Hear,  O  Blessed  Mary ;  hear, 
oh,  hear  ! 

THE   MAN. 

Have  pity  upon  us  ! 

THE    MOTHER. 

O  Christ,  son  of  Mary,  save  me  ! 

THE    PRIEST. 

[Aloud.}     For  it  is  Thine  ! 

THE    SISTER   OF   MERCY. 

Thine  ! 

THE    OTHER. 

[In  the  shadow.}     Mine  ! 

[Silence  for  some  minutes.  The  clock  ticks 
loudly.  A  sound  as  of  an  opening  and 
closing  door  somewhere.  The  Priest  looks 
up  for  a  moment,  thinking  he  heard  some- 
one rise  from  the  deep-set  window-seat  at 
the  far  end  of  the  chamber  and  come  slowly 
across  the  room.  But  he  sees  no  one.  He 
bends  his  head  again,  and  prays  inaudibly.] 


52  Vistas. 


THE   MAN. 


[  With  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.']     If  it 

be  possible,  let  this  thing  — 

[Stops,  as  there  comes  from  the  bed  a  sound 
of  low,  shaken  sobs.] 


THE   WOMAN. 

\_Below  her  breath^]   .  .   .  Even    so,  Virgin 
Mother,  Most  Pure  ! 

THE    OTHER. 

\_In  the  shadow.']     Yea,  so. 

[Again  a  prolonged  silence.  All  wait,  know- 
ing the  woman's  agony  is  at  hand.  The 
right  hand  of  the  father  shakes  as  though 
he  were  in  an  ague.  The  sweat  on  his 
forehead  moves  slowly  down  his  face  in 
large,  heavy  drops] 

THE   MAN. 

[Suddenly.]     Who  knocks? 

THE   PRIEST. 

No  one  knocked. 

THE   WOMAN. 

[/»  a  high,  faint,  perishing   voice.]     Who 

knocks? 

[The  sister  of  Mercy  rises  and  goes  to  the 
door.  Opens  and  closes  it,  saying,  as  she 
returns  to  her  post:] 

THE    SISTER   OF   MERCY. 

There  is  no  one  there. 


The   Birth  of  a  Soul.  $3 

THE   WOMAN. 

[Shrilly. ~\     \Yho  came  in  just  now? 

THE   SISTER    OF   MERCY. 

No  one.     It  is  I. 

THE   WOMAN. 

[7/z  a  low  sighing  tone.']     It  is  the  end. 

THE    OTHER. 

[/;/  the  shadow.]     It  is  the  beginning  of  the 
end. 

[A  prolonged  silence,  save  for  the  endless 
moaning  and  occasional  convulsive  cries 
of  the  woman.  At  last  the  Priest  rises, 
and  sits  by  the  table.  He  pulls  the  shaded 
lamp  towards  him,  and  begins  to  read  from 
a  book : ] 

THE   PRIEST. 

Unto  us  a  child  is  born  — 

[The  woman  sits  up  convulsively  in  bed,  with 
her  face  turned  almost  round  upon  her 
right  shoulder,  her  eyes  staring  in  horror.] 

THE   WOMAN. 

Who  touched  me  ? 

THE   SISTER    OF    MERCY. 

\_Rising.~]     Hush ! 

[She  comes  over  to  the  bed,  gently  persuades 
the  woman  to  lie  back,  and  then  kneels 
beside  the  bed.] 


54  Vistas. 


THE    SISTER    OF   MERCY. 


There  is  no  one  here  but  those  who  love  you. 
There  is  no  one  here  but  those  whom  you  see. 


THE    OTHER. 


\_ln  the  shadow.']     And  I  ! 

[In  the  heavy  curtains  behind  the  bed  a  current 
of  air  seems  to  move  for  a  moment] 


THE   WOMAN. 

[White  with  fear,  whispering.]     Who  sighed 
behind  me? 

THE    SISTER    OF    MERCY. 

There  is  no  one  here  but  those  who  love  you. 
There  is  no  one  here  but  those  whom  you  see. 

[Again  silence,  but  for  the  monotonous  moan- 
ing of  the  woman.  The  clock  strikes  the 
quarter.  The  man  rises,  goes  to  the  win- 
dow, stares  forth  steadily,  then  returns.] 

THE  MAN. 

There  is  no  one  there. 

[The  woman's  limbs  move  slowly  beneath  the 
coverlet.  Her  breathing  is  high  and  quick, 
though  ever  and  again  it  stops  abruptly. 
Her  hands  wander  restlessly  to  and  fro, 
ceaselessly  plucking  at  nothing.] 

the  sister  of  mercy  {in  a  low  voice) . 

Ave  Maria  ! 

[The  woman's  hands  never  cease  their  pluck, 
pluck,  plucking  at  nothing.] 


The   Birth  of  a  Soul.  55 

THE    PRIEST. 

[Muttering  to   himself '.]       It   will    soon  be 
over. 

THE   OTHER. 

[In  the  shadow.']     It  has  begun. 

[The  man  rises,  goes  to  the  window,  stares 
forth  steadily,  then  returns.] 

THE   MAN. 

There  is  no  one  there. 

[The  woman's  hands  cease  their  wandering 
sidelong  pluck,  pluck,  pluck.  She  raises 
both  hands  slowly,  rigid,  emaciated.  When 
they  are  above  her  head  they  suddenly  fall. 
The  right  strikes  the  wooden  edge  of  the 
bed,  and  hangs  stiffly  by  its  side.  The 
Sister  of  Mercy  replaces  it,  the  woman 
watching  her  fixedly.] 

THE    PRIEST. 

[Starting  up  suddenly,  and  trembling.]     My 
brethren,  if  so  be  — 

THE   MAN. 

[Poi?iting^\     What  —  who  —  is  that  ? 

THE    PRIEST. 

My  son,  there  is  nought  there  ? 

THE   MAN. 

Who  stirred  in  the  deep  shadow  at  the  end 
of  the  bed? 


56  Vistas. 


THE   SISTER   OF   MERCY. 

Hush  !  for  the  love  of  God  !     The  woman  is 

in  labour. 

[There  is  a  sound  as  of  some  one  drowning 
in  a  morass :  a  horrible  struggling  and 
choking.] 

THE   PRIEST. 

[ffoldifig  up  a  small  crucifix.~\    O  God,  have 
pity  upon  us  ! 

THE    SISTER    OF    MERCY. 

O  Christ,  have  pity  upon  us  ! 

THE    MAN. 

[Peering  into  the  shadowy  gloom  at  the  end 
of  the  beet '.]     O  Thou,  have  pity  upon  us  ! 

THE   PRIEST. 

[Chanting."]     O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  ! 

THE    OTHER. 

\_In  the  shadow '.]     In  thy  birth,  O  Life  ! 

THE   PRIEST. 

[Chanting.']      O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ! 

THE   OTHER. 

[In  the  shadow '.]     I  am  come. 

There  is  a  sudden  cessation  of  sound.  The 
Sister  of  Mercy  lifts  something  from  the 
bed.  There  is  a  low,  thin  wail.  The  man 
does  not  see,  and  does  not  seem  to  hear. 
He  kneels  at  his  chair,  but  his  head  is 
turned  away,  and  he  stares  fixedly  toward 
the  window.] 


The  Birth  of  a  Soul.  57 

THE   SISTER   OF   MERCY. 

She  is  dead. 

THE    PRIEST. 

O  God,  receive  her  soul!  O  Christ,  have 
pity  upon  her  !  O  most  Holy  Mother  of  God, 
have  mercy  upon  her  ! 

THE   OTHER. 

[In  the  shadow.']  Woman,  abide  yet  a  little. 
Give  me  thy  life. 

THE   SISTER    OF   MERCY. 

The  child  liveth.     It  is  a  man-child. 

THE   PRIEST. 

[Touching  the  man.]     It  is  a  man-child. 

THE    MAN. 

[Still  staring  fixedly  at  the  window,  repeats, 
in  a  slow,  dull  voice.]     It  is  a  man-child. 

[The  man  slowly  rises,  turns,  and  walks  to  the 
bedside.     He  stares  upon  the  dead  face.] 

THE  PRIEST. 

[Ending    rapidly.]        As     it     was     in    the 
beginning  — 

THE   SISTER    OF   MERCY. 

Is  now  — 

A   VOICE. 

[Near  the  window.]     And  ever  shall  be. 


58  Vistas. 

THE   PRIEST. 

[Trembling.]     Who  spoke? 

THE    SISTER   OF   MERCY. 

No  one. 

[The  Priest  falls  on  his  knees  and,  covering 
his  eyes,  prays  fervently.  The  man  lifts 
the  child  from  the  Sister's  arms.  Its  eyes 
open  upon  him.  As  he  looks  at  it  his  face 
grows  ashy  pale.  His  whole  body  trembles. 
His  eyes  seem  as  though  they  would  strain 
from  their  sockets. J 

THE  PRIEST. 

[Rising,    and  in    a    loud,  clear  voice.~]       O 
Death,  where  is  thy  sting  ! 

[The  man  looks  at  what  was  the  woman.] 

THE   PRIEST. 

O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  ! 

THE   MAN. 

[Looking  on   the  face  of  the  child,  who  is 
fixedly  staring  beyond  him.~\     Here. 


A  Northern  Night. 


That  dark  hour,  obscurely  minatory,  in  the 
tide  of  two  lives  .  .  .  when,  unforeseen  and  un- 
recognized, Love  and  Death  come  in  at  the  flood 

together. 

Siwaarmill. 


A  Northern  Night. 


[An  hour  after  midnight.  A  desolate  district 
of  Northern  Scotland,  hemmed  in  by  moun- 
tains and  innumerable  lochs  and  tarns  and 
deep,  narrow  streams.  In  the  remotest 
part  of  it,  miles  from  the  nearest  hut,  a 
semi-ruinous  'keep,'  Iorsa  Tower,  at  the 
extreme  north  end  of  Loch  Malon.  It  is 
dead  of  winter.  For  weeks  the  land  has 
been  ice-bound.  The  deer  and  the  hill- 
sheep  are  starving;  only  the  corbies  and 
eagles  gorge  their  full.  Iorsa  Keep  stands 
out  black  against  the  snow-covered  wilder- 
ness. A  dull,  red  light,  high  up,  like  a 
staring  eye,  gleams  under  a  projecting 
ledge.  There  is  no  sound  but  the  occa- 
sional crack  of  the  bitter  frost,  and,  at  inter- 
vals, the  wind  pressing  in  the  frozen  surface 
of  the  snow  depths.  In  the  one  habitable 
room  sit  two  figures,  before  a  rude  fire  of 
pine-logs.  Most  of  the  room  is  in  deep 
shadow.  The  flickering  flame-light  dis- 
closes a  small,  deep-set  window  to  the  left. 
Between  it  and  the  hearth-place,  and  close 
to  the  wall,  a  bed,  startlingly  white  in  the 
midst  of  the  gloom.  Over  it,  on  the  wall, 
the  flying  lights  flash  momently  on  old 
disused  weapons. 

In  all  the  wild  lands  around  there  is  not  a 
living  soul  except  the  twain  who  sit  before 
the  fire.] 


62  Vistas. 


MALCOLM. 

The  black  frost  is  about  to  break :  I  hear  the 
wind  ruffling  the  snow. 

HELDA. 

Is  it  the  snow? 

MALCOLM. 

Go  to  the  window  and  look  out.  You  will 
see  the  thin,  frozen  snow  beginning  to  fly 
along  the  loch  like  spray.     The  wind  rises. 

HELDA. 

No  ;  I  am  afraid. 

MALCOLM. 

\_Rising.~]  Then  I  will  go.  .  .  .  See,  the  win- 
dow is  open,  and  you  can  now  hear  the  wind. 

HELDA. 

Oh,  how  cold  it  is. 

MALCOLM. 

The  wind  is  blowing  from  behind  :  it  did  not 
come  in  at  the  window. 

HELDA. 

Yes,  yes,  it  did  :  and.  .  .  . 

MALCOLM. 

[Returning  to  Helda1  s  side.~\     Is  not  the  fire 

comforting?     The   logs  are    red-hot,   sparkling 

and  sputtering. 

[Helda,  slightly  shivering,  glances  at  him,  and 
then  draws  nearer  to  the  fire.] 


A  Northern  Night.  63 

MALCOLM. 

Are  you  not  glad  we  are  no  longer  on  the 
ice? 

HELDA. 

Yes  :  oh,  yes,  yes. 

MALCOLM. 

And  that  we  are  here  at  last,  we  two  !     Oh, 
Helda ! 

HELDA. 

Yes,  I  am  glad  that  we  are  no  longer  upon 
the  ice. 

MALCOLM. 

Why  do  you  repeat  yourself,  Helda? 

[Helda,  in  silence,  looks  straight  before  her 
into  the  fire.] 

MALCOLM. 

Why  are  you  glad? 

HELDA. 

Because  I  feared  that  we  were  followed. 

MALCOLM. 

Who  would  have  followed  us?     Who  could 

have  followed  us? 

[Helda  stares  fixedly,  and  in  silence,  at  the 
glowing  embers.] 

MALCOLM. 

No  one  followed  us. 


64  Vistas. 


HELDA. 

Thrice,  when  I  looked  behind  my  shoulder, 
I  saw  a  shadow  flying  along  the  ice. 

MALCOLM. 

The  half-moon  was  as  ruddy  as  a  torch-flame. 
We  should  have  seen  any  one  who  followed  us. 
And  when  we  reached  the  frozen  loch  we  could 
see  all  around. 

HELDA. 

It  was  there  I  saw  the  flying  shadow. 

MALCOLM. 

I  heard  no  one.     I  heard  nothing. 

HELDA. 

Nor  I,  except  the  hiss  of  the  wind  blowing 
the  ice-spray  over  the  loch. 

MALCOLM. 

There  was  no  wind. 

HELDA. 

The  ice-spray  flew  before  the  blast.  I  saw  a 
little  cloud  of  it  behind. 

MALCOLM. 

There  was  no  wind.  And  now,  I  have  told 
you,  the  wind  is  from  behind  the  house. 

HELDA. 

Then  it  blew  toward  the  house. 


A  Northern  Night.  6$ 

MALCOLM. 

Well,  it  does  not  matter.  '  The  wind  cometh 
and  goeth.' 

HELDA. 

[Slowly,  and  as  to  herself. ~\  It  cometh  — 
and  goeth. 

MALCOLM. 

I  wonder  what  they  are  doing  at  the  castle. 
The  dancers  will  have  gone  now.  Perhaps 
they  will  be  putting  out  the  lights. 

HELDA. 

If  we  have  been  missed  ? 

MALCOLM. 

No  one  will  miss  us.  But,  if  so,  what  then? 
My  father  knows  that  those  of  us  for  whom 
there  is  not  room  in  the  castle  will  sleep  for 
the  night  in  some  of  the  farm-houses  near. 
As  for  you,  if  you  are  missed  they  will  think 
you  have  skated  back  to  Castle  Urquhar.  No 
one  can  know.  We  are  as  safe  here,  my  beau- 
tiful Helda,  as  though  we  were  in  the  grave. 

HELDA. 

Hush  !     Do  not  say  such  things. 

MALCOLM. 

Darling,  we  are  safe  here.  We  are  miles 
from  the  nearest  hut  even.  No  one  ever  comes 
here. 


66  Vistas. 

HELDA. 

Malcolm,  I  wish  —  I  wish  — 

MALCOLM. 

What  is  it,  Helda  ?     Speak. 

HELDA. 

I  wish  we  had  not  done  this  thing.     He  — 

MALCOLM. 

Who? 

HELDA. 

You  know  whom  I  mean :  Archibald  Graeme. 

MALCOLM. 

Never  mind  that  old  man.  You  will  have 
more  than  enough  of  him  soon.  Is  it  still  fixed 
that  the  marriage  is  to  take  place  ten  days 
hence? 

HELDA. 

He  is  a  good  man.  He  has  saved  my  father 
from  ruin. 

MALCOLM. 

Will  he  take  you  away?  Will  he  take  you  to 
the  South-country? 

HELDA. 

And  he  loved  my  mother.  He  loves  me 
because  he  loved  her. 


A  Northern   Night.  67 

MALCOLM. 

He  is  soon  to  be  so  passing  rich,  Helda.  I 
am  to  starve,  to  famish  for  you,  Helda. 

HELDA. 

Dear,  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  with 
all  my  soul.  You  know  it.  I  have  given  you 
my  secret  joy,  my  true  life,  my  whole  love, 
myself. 

MALCOLM. 

Love  like  ours  would  redeem  .  .  . 

HELDA. 

Hark! 

MALCOLM. 

It  is  the  wind. 

HELDA. 

It  blows  again  across  the  loch,  against  the 
window. 

MALCOLM. 

No,  dear  Helda,  it  is  but  an  eddy.  The 
wind  rises  more  and  more,  but  from  the  north. 

HELDA. 

[  Whispering. ,]  Some  white  snow  was  blown 
up  against  the  window  ! 

MALCOLM. 

Dearest,  you  are  imagining.  No  snow  can 
blow  against  this  window  with  the  wind  as  it 
is,  for  the  gable  shuts  us  off. 


68  Vistas. 


HELDA. 

[Trembling,  and  with  hands  claspt."]  I  saw 
a  round  drift  of  something  pale  as  snow  pressed 
against  the  window. 

MALCOLM. 

I  will  convince  you. 

[Rises,  and  opens  the  window.  There  is  no 
snow  on  the  sill.  The  wind  strikes  the 
Keep  behind  with  a  dull  boom,  and  rushes 
overhead  with  an  incessant  screaming 
sound.  But  in  front  all  is  as  quiet  as 
though  it  were  a  windless  night.] 

MALCOLM. 

See,  dear,  there  is  no  snow :  and  hark  !  the 

wind  blows  steadily  southward. 

[Closes  the  window,  and  returns  to  Helda's 
side.] 

HELDA. 

Malcom,  you  will  not  be  angry  with  me  —  if 
I— if  I  .  .  . 

MALCOLM. 

What? 

HELDA. 

If  I  pray.  I  have  not  prayed  for  a  long  time 
from  my  heart.  To-night  I  fear  the  darkness 
without  a  prayer.  I  will  say  no  words,  but  I 
must  pray. 

MALCOLM. 


Pray  if  you  will,  Helda. 


A  Northern  Night.  69 

HELDA. 

Yes,  .  .  .  yes ;  .  .  .  I  must  pray ! 

MALCOLM. 

Dear,  as   you   will.     You   would   be  alone? 

.  .  .  See  :  I  shall  be  in  the  corridor  outside. 

Call    me  when  you  wish   me   to   return.      But 

have    mercy  on    me,   sweetheart !     Remember 

that  there  is  no  fire  out  there,  and  that  the 

air  is  chill  along  those  stone  flags. 

[Rises  and  leaves  the  room.     He  has  scarcely 
closed  the  door  ere  Helda  cries  loudly :] 

HELDA. 

Malcolm  !  Malcolm  !  Come  at  once  !  Mal- 
colm ! 

MALCOLM. 

[Abruptly  re-entering.]  What  is  it?  .  .  . 
what  is  it,  Helda?  Has  anything  frightened 
you? 

HELDA. 

Yes,  the  whiteness  at  the  window :  the  snow 
at  the  window ! 

MALCOLM. 

Oh,  Helda,  Helda,  there  is  no  snow  at  the 
window. 

HELDA. 

Malcolm,  are  there  any  birds  that  fly  by  night  ? 


yo  Vistas. 


MALCOLM. 

The  owls  fly  by  night,  but  not  at  dead  of 
winter. 

HELDA. 

No  bats,  no  moths? 

MALCOLM. 

No. 

HELDA. 

When  I  looked  out  at  the  window  when  we 
came  in  here  I  saw  that  there  were  no  trees 
near,  and  that  no  ivy  grows  up  this  side  of 
Iorsa. 

MALCOLM. 

There  is  none. 

HELDA. 

\_In  a  low,  strained  voice. ,]  Malcolm,  it 
was  as  though  there  were  birds  tapping  at  the 
window. 

MALCOLM. 

You  are  nervous,  darling.  Come,  let  us  for- 
get the  dark  night,  and  the  wind,  and  the  bitter 
cold.  We  are  here,  and  the  world  is  ours 
to-night. 

HELDA. 

Hush  !     There  it  is  again  ! 

MALCOLM. 

That  sound  is  in  the  room. 


A  Northern   Night.  71 

HELDA. 

Malcolm  !  Malcolm  ! 

MALCOLM. 

My  foolish  Helda,  how  easy  it  would  be  to 
frighten  you.  It  is  only  a  little  insect  in  the 
wall. 

HELDA. 

The  death-watch? 

MALCOLM. 

Yes,  the  death-watch. 

HELDA. 

\_Shuddering.~]  It  is  a  horrible  name.  Sst! 
How  the  wind  wails. 

MALCOLM. 

I  hope  .  .  . 

HELDA. 

What? 

MALCOLM. 

I  hope  it  does  not  bring  too  much  snow. 

HELDA. 

Why? 

MALCOLM. 

We  are  a  long  way  from  home,  Helda. 


72  Vistas. 


HELDA. 

Do  you  fear  that  we  cannot  get  back  if  the 
snow  fall  heavily? 

MALCOLM. 

If  it  drifts  we  cannot  skate.  But  there  is  no 
snow  yet.     There  will  be  none  before  morning. 

HELDA. 

Darling,  I  have  lost  all  fear.  I  am  with  you. 
That  is  enough.  If  it  were  not  for  my  father's 
sake,  I  wish  we  could  die  to-night ! 

MALCOLM. 

My  beautiful  Helda,  my  darling,  my  heart's 
delight ! 

[They  stand  awhile  together  by  the  fire,  she 
leaning  against  him,  and  his  left  arm  round 
her.  A  log  falls  in.  Another  gives  way 
with  a  crash.  There  is  only  a  red  gulf  of 
pulsating  glow,  with  over  the  last  charred 
log  pale  blue  frost-flames  flickering  fan- 
tastically. Suddenly  they  turn,  and  look 
into  each  other's  eyes.  Malcolm's  shine 
strangely  in  the  half-light,  and  his  face  has 
grown  pale.  A  tremulous  flush  wavers 
upon  Helda's  face.  His  breathing  comes 
quick  and  hard.  She  gives  a  low,  scarce- 
heard  sob.] 

MALCOLM. 

My  darling  ! 

HELDA. 

Oh,  Malcolm,  Malcolm  ! 


A  Northern  Night.  73 

[An  hour  passes.  .  .  . 

The  fire  has  fallen  in,  and  smoulders  beneath 
such  a  weight  of  ash  and  charred  wood 
that  the  room  is  in  complete  darkness. 
Outside,  utter  silence.  The  wind  has  sud- 
denly lulled.  Malcolm  and  Helda  lie  in 
each  other's  arms,  but  neither  has  spoken 
for  some  time.] 


Malcolm  ! 
My  darling 


HELDA. 


MALCOLM. 


HELDA. 


You  will  not  go  to  sleep?  I  am  so  happy, 
oh,  I  am  so  happy,  here  in  your  arms,  Malcolm ; 
but  I  should  be  afraid  if  you  slept. 

MALCOLM. 

Do  you  think  I  would  sleep,  Helda,  to-night 
of  all  nights  in  my  life  ? 

HELDA. 

\_After  a  long  silence.~\      It  is  so  still. 

MALCOLM. 

The  wind  has  suddenly  fallen. 

HELDA. 

Move  your  arm,  dear.  Malcolm,  .  .  .  Mal- 
colm, I  wish  it  were  not  so  dark  !  I  never 
knew  such  darkness. 


74  Vistas. 


MALCOLM. 


The  fire  smoulders.  It  will  not  go  out. 
When  we  rise,  I  shall  blow  the  flame  into  life 
again. 


HELDA. 


I  wish  it  were  not  so  profoundly,  so  fearfully 
dark! 

MALCOLM. 

Sweetheart,  if  you  are  unhappy,  I  will  stir  up 

the  heart  of  it  at  once.     I  will  do  it  now. 

[Rises  from  the  bed,  and  stirs  the  smoulder- 
ing fire.  A  flame  shoots  up  and  illumines 
the  room  for  a  moment.  Malcolm  places  a 
fresh  log  in  the  glowing  hollow  he  has  dis- 
closed, and  returns  to  Helda.  She  is  cow- 
ering against  the  wall,  and  shivering  with 
fear.  As  soon  as  he  is  beside  her  she 
clings  close  to  him,  and  moans  faintly.] 

MALCOLM. 

Helda,  Helda,  what  ails  you  ?     What  is  it  ? 

HELDA. 

Malcolm,  let  us  go ;  let  us  go  at  once  ! 

MALCOLM. 

Dearest,  do  not  be  so  frightened  at  nothing. 
Are  we  to  lose  this  precious  night  together  be- 
cause of  a  death-watch  ticking  in  the  wall,  or  a 
blown  leaf  tapping  against  the  window? 

HELDA. 

Oh,  Malcolm,  what  was  it? 


A  Northern  Night.  75 

MALCOLM. 

What?     When? 

HELDA. 

When  you  rose  and  stirred  the  logs,  and  the 
flame  shot  up  for  a  moment,  I  saw  .  .  . 

[Stops,  shuddering.] 

MALCOLM. 

Tell  me,  darling.  .  .  . 

HELDA. 

I  saw  some  one  —  a  —  a  —  something  —  rise 
from  the  end  of  the  bed  and  slip  into  the 
darkness. 

MALCOLM. 

Oh,  foolish  Helda,  to  be  so  easily  frightened 
by  my  shadow.  Of  course  my  shadow  followed 
me,  dear ! 

HELDA. 

It  was  when  you  were  at  the  fire  !  The  — 
the  —  shadow  was  not  yours. 

MALCOLM. 

Ah,  there  is  a  wild  bird  fluttering  in  that 
little  heart  of  yours  ! 

HELDA. 

Dear,  when  you  kiss  me  so  I  fear  nothing 
more.     Nothing  —  nothing  —  nothing  ! 


j6  Vistas. 

MALCOLM. 

Nothing  —  nothing  —  nothing  ! 

HELDA. 

Ah,  yes,  hold  me  close,  close  !  My  darling, 
I  have  given  you  all.  Nothing  now  can  come 
between  us  ! 

MALCOLM. 

Nothing,  my  beautiful  Helda.  And,  dear 
[whispering],  you  do  not  wish  to  go  yet? 
The  morning  is  still  far  off. 

HELDA. 

[  Whispering  lower  still,  and  with  a  low,  glad 
try.]     Not  now,  not  now  ! 

[Profound   silence,  save  for  their  sighs  and 
kisses.] 

MALCOLM. 

[In  a  low  voice.]  And  when  old  Archibald 
Graeme  .  .  . 

HELDA. 

[Starting  half  up.]     Hark  !     What  was  that  ? 

MALCOLM. 

[Listening.]  It  was  nothing.  Perhaps  the 
wind  rose  and  fell. 

HELDA. 

[Fearfully.]  If  it  was  the  wind,  it  is  in  the 
house  !  I  hear  it  lifting  faintly  from  step  to 
step. 


A   Northern   Night.  77 


MALCOLM. 


[Listening  more  ititent/yJ]  There  must  be 
wind  behind  the  house.  It  is  causing  draughts 
to  play  through  the  chinks  and  in  the  bare 
rooms. 


HELDA. 


[Sitting  up  in  bed  and  staring  through  the 
darkness.]     It  is  in  the  corridor  ! 

MALCOLM. 

In  the  corridor? 

HELDA. 

Yes ;  that  low,  ruffling  sound. 

MALCOLM. 

The  wind  is  rising. 

HELDA. 

[  Whispering?^  Malcolm,  don't  move  ;  don't 
stir.     It  is  at  the  door. 

MALCOLM. 

I  hear  it :  it  is  a  current  of  air  swirling  the 
dust  along  the  passage. 

HELDA. 

[  With  a  low  cry.~\  Oh,  Malcolm,  it  is  in  the 
room  !  What  is  it  that  is  moving  so  softly  to 
and  fro? 


78  Vistas. 


MALCOLM. 


[Springing  from  the  bed.~]  Ah,  I  thought  so. 
The  window  is  open  :  I  must  have  left  the  latch 
unfastened.     There  :  it  will  not  open  again  ! 

HELDA. 

The  window  was  not  open  before,  Malcolm. 

MALCOLM. 

Ha  !  there  is  the  snow  at  last !  I  hear  its 
shovelling  sound  against  the  gable.  Darling, 
we  must  go  soon. 

HELDA. 

[Sobbing  with  fear.']  It  is  in  the  room  !  It 
is  in  the  room  !     It  is  in  the  room  ! 


MALCOLM. 


There  is  no  one  here  but  ourselves,  Helda. 
That  sound  is  the  shoving  of  the  snow  along 
the  walls. 


HELDA. 

It  is  some  one  moving  round  the  room.     O 
Christ,  help  us  ! 

MALCOLM. 

Listen  ! 

[They  both  sit  up,  listening  intently.  For 
nearly  three  minutes  there  is  profound 
silence.] 

HELDA. 

Oh,  my  God  ! 


A  Northern  Night.  79 

MALCOLM. 

Be  still,  for  God's  sake  !     Do  not  move. 

[Utter  silence.] 

HELDA. 
[Shudderingly.'\     Ah-h-h-h ! 

MALCOLM. 

\In  a  low  voiced     Some  one  is  at  the  door. 

HELDA. 

\In  a  dull  echoJ]     Some  one  is  at  the  door. 

MALCOLM. 

[  Whisperingly.~\  Quick,  Helda !  rise  and 
dress. 

HELDA. 

I  cannot.  Oh,  my  God,  what  is  it  that 
moves  about  the  room?  What  is  within  the 
door?     Oh,  Malcolm,  save  me  ! 

MALCOLM. 

Let  me  go  !     Do  not  be  frightened  :  I  shall 

move  that  log,  and  then  we  shall  see. 

[Rises,  and  pulls  the  log  back.  A  shower  of 
sparks  ascends :  and  then  a  clear,  yellow 
flame  shoots  up  and  illumines  the  room. 
There  is  a  wild  wail  of  wind  in  the  chim- 
ney, and  then  a  long,  querulous  sighing 
sound,  culminating  in  a  rising  moan.  A 
handful  of  sleety  snow  is  dashed  by  a  wind- 
eddy  against  the  window.] 

MALCOLM. 

Arise  ! 


80  Vistas. 

HELDA. 

Come  to  me.     I  — 

[Helda  cowers  back  in  her  bed,  with  lips 
drawn  taut  with  terror  and  eyes  staring 
wildly.] 

MALCOLM. 

[Suddenly,  in  a  loud,  imperative  voiced  Who 
is  there? 

[Dead  silence.] 

MALCOLM. 

Who  is  there? 

[Dead  silence.] 

HELDA. 

[  With  a  strange,  sobbing  cry.~\     It  is  Death  ! 
[She  falls  back  in  a  death-like  swoon.] 

MALCOLM. 

Oh,  my  God  ! 

[He  takes  Helda  in  his  arms,  kissing  her 
passionately.  Slowly,  at  last,  she  opens 
her  eyes.] 

MALCOLM. 

My  darling,  my  darling  !  Be  frightened  no 
more,  Helda  !  .  .  .  Dearest,  it  is  I,  .  .  .  Mal- 
colm !  .  .  .  There  is  no  one  there. 

HELDA. 

[_  Whispering."]  Oh,  Malcolm,  did  you  hear 
what  he  said? 


A   Northern   Night.  81 

MALCOLM. 

You  were   frightened  by  the  stillness;  .  .  . 
by  the  wind ;  .  .  .  the  wandering  eddies  of  air 
in  this  old  place  3  ...  by  ...  by  ..  . 

HELDA. 

God  grant  it !  Dear,  we  have  paid  bitterly 
for  our  joy. 

MALCOLM. 

Not  too  much,  Helda  !  I  would  go  through 
Hell  itself  for  such  rapture  as  we  have  known. 

HELDA. 

My  darling,  I  can  never  face  him  —  I  can 
never  face  him,  with  his  fierce,  penetrating 
eyes !  Ah,  would  to  God  that  we  two  could 
go  away  together,  and  be  man  and  wife,  and 
forget  him  —  forget  all ! 

MALCOLM. 

Even  yet,  Helda  — 

HELDA. 

No,  no,  no  !  You  know  it  cannot  be.  We 
have  sinned  enough.  Malcolm,  are  you  sure 
no  one  is  there? 

MALCOLM. 

There  is  not  a  living  soul  in  this  place 
besides  ourselves.  .  .  .  But  we  had  best  go 
now,  dear.  In  another  hour  it  will  be  day- 
light. 

6 


82  Vistas. 

[He  kisses  her  tenderly,  and  then  goes  to 
the  fire  and  stirs  it  afresh,  hurriedly  puts 
on  his  things,  goes  to  the  door,  opens  it, 
and,  staring  into  the  dark  corridor,  listens 
intently.  Helda  dresses  herself  rapidly, 
and  erelong  glides  to  his  side.] 

HELDA. 

Shall  we  go,  Malcolm  ?     It  is  so  dark. 

MALCOLM. 

I  will  get  the  torch. 

[Goes  and  returns  with  it  lit.] 

MALCOLM. 

Let  us  go.     Take  my  hand. 

[They  descend  the  long,  dark,  winding  stair- 
way.    The  torch  spurtles  and  goes  out.] 

.MALCOLM. 

(Suddenly."]     Who  goes  there  ? 

[No  answer.] 

MALCOLM. 

Who  goes  there? 

HELDA. 

{Clinging  close.]    Some  one  brushed  past  me 

just  now  !  .  .  .  Oh,  Malcolm  ! 

[Holding  each  other's  hands  they  stumble  on, 
and,  more  by  chance  than  foreknowledge, 
reach  the  door  that  leads  into  the  court. 
They  search  awhile  for  the  skates  they  left 
there,  but  in  the  dark  do  not  find  them. 
At  last  they  are  found.  They  go  out,  cross 
the  stone  court,  and  as  they  go  through  the 


A  Northern  Night.  83 

old  ruined  gate  they  look  up.  A  brilliant, 
red  light  gleams  through  the  window  of 
the  room  they  had  been  in. 
Hand  in  hand,  they  hasten  along  the  snow- 
banked  track  till  they  reach  the  loch. 
There  they  hurriedly  put  on  their  skates. 
In  less  than  a  minute  thereafter  they  are 
flying  along  the  black  ice,  his  left  hand 
holding  her  right.] 

HELDA. 

Quick,  Malcolm  ! 

MALCOLM. 

We  cannot  go  quicker.  The  snow  has 
drifted  a  little  here. 

HELDA. 

Is  that  the  wind  following  us  ? 

MALCOLM. 

There  is  no  wind.     Make   haste.     We  must 

not  stop. 

[After  a  brief  interval :] 

HELDA. 

Malcolm  !  Malcolm  !  there  is  some  one  else 
on  the  loch  ! 

MALCOLM. 

Impossible.  Come,  Helda,  be  brave.  It 
will  be  daylight  soon.  In  five  minutes  more 
we  '11  have  crossed  the  reach,  and  then  have 
only  the  Water  of  Sorrow  to  skate  up  till  we 
come  to  the  Black  Kyle. 


84  Vistas. 


HELDA. 

It  is  coming  this  way  !  He  —  he  —  the 
skater  —  is  coming  this  way  ! 

MALCOLM. 

He  must  skate  well  if  he  overtake  us,  Helda  ! 
Come,  the  ice  is  clearer  again.  I  see  it :  it  is 
blacker  than  the  night. 

HELDA. 

Are  we  going  in  the  right  direction? 

MALCOLM. 

Yes,  yes ;  come  on,  come  on  ! 

[They  fly  along  at  their  utmost  speed.  Sud- 
denly Helda  sways,  and  almost  falls.  Mal- 
colm supports  her,  and  they  skate  on,  but 
more  slowly.] 

HELDA. 

\_Faintly.~\     Some  one  passed  us  ! 

MALCOLM. 

\Eagerly7\  Look  yonder  !  I  can  see  the 
shadowy  ridge  of  Ben  Malon  !     It  is  day  ! 

HELDA. 

I  can  go  no  further.     Oh,  hold  me,  Malcolm. 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms.  She  slowly  re- 
covers. Gradually  an  ashy  grey  gloom 
prevails  to  the  eastward.  They  wait  si- 
lently. Erelong  they  see  the  whole  mass 
of  Ben  Malon  looming  through  the  dusk. 
The  ice  gleams  like  white  salt  in  a  dark 
cavern.     Soon  the  loch  is  visible  for  some 


A  Northern  Night.  85 

distance ;  and,  a  short  way  beyond  them, 
the  narrow  mile-long  reach  of  it  known  as 
the  Water  of  Sorrow.] 

MALCOLM. 

Helda,  dearest,  can  you  go  on  now?  The 
night  is  over.  .  .  . 

HELDA. 

[  With   a  low,    choking   sob.~]     Thank    God, 

thank  God  ! 

[They  skate  on.  The  dawn  vaguely  and 
slowly  advances.  Soon  they  enter  the 
frozen  Water  of  Sorrow.  The  few  trees 
along  its  banks  are  still  blotches  of  black. 
Neither  speaks,  but,  hand  in  hand,  both 
sway  onward  as  scythes  tirelessly  sweeping 
through  leagues  of  grass.  At  last  they 
reach  the  end  of  the  Water  of  Sorrow,  and 
enter  the  Black  Kyle.] 

MALCOLM. 

In  ten  minutes,  Helda,  we  '11  be  on  Urquhar 
Water,  and  then  you  will  be  almost  at  home. 
Look  behind  !  A  white  mist  is  sweeping  along 
after  us. 

HELDA. 

I  dare  not  look  behind. 

MALCOLM. 

Why? 

HELDA. 

I  dare  not  look  behind. 

[With  strained  eyes  and  white,  rigid  face, 
Helda  skates  on,  Malcolm  still  holding  her 
hand.     The  white  wreath  of  mist  gains  on 


86  Vistas. 

them.  Helda's  breath  comes  quick  and 
hard,  but  she  increases  her  speed.  Mal- 
colm sways  as  he  strives  to  keep  up  with 
her.  They  swing  out  of  the  Black  Kyle 
and  into  Urquhar  Water.  A  small  islet 
looms  in  front  of  them.  Dimly  through 
the  gray,  chill  gloom  rises  the  rugged  out- 
lines of  Urquhar.  The  loch  forks,  —  one 
fork  toward  the  castle ;  the  other,  and 
longer,  to  the  right.] 

HELDA. 

[Gaspingly."]     At  last ! 

MALCOLM. 

Sstf  There  is  some  one  coming  down  the 
Narrow  Water  ! 

HELDA. 

Quick  !  quick  !     Let  us  gain  the  islet ! 

[They  reach  it,  and  Helda  sinks  exhausted 
among  a  bed  of  reeds,  which  crackle  loudly. 
Malcolm  has  just  time  to  recover  his  bal- 
ance and  to  swing  round,  when  a  skater 
dashes  from  the  hidden  Narrow  and  flies 
across  the  broad  and  towards  the  islet. 
He  sees  Malcolm,  and  hastes  in  his  di- 
rection, but  without  coming  right  for  him. 
Malcolm  recognizes  him  as  Martin  Brooks, 
a  groom  from  Urquhar.] 

MALCOLM. 

[Shouting.']  Ho  !  Martin  !  Martin  !  Stop 
a  moment!  Where  are  you  going?  Is  the 
side-way  open? 

MARTIN. 

[Calling,  as  he  swentes  for  a  moment  or 
two.]     I  can't  stop,  sir  !     I  am  off  across  the 


A   Northern   Night.  87 

loch  and  through  the  Glen  of  Dusker  to  fetch 
Dr.  James  Graeme. 

MALCOLM. 

What  is  wrong? 

MARTIN. 

[Shouting,  with  his  hand  to  his  mouth.']  In 
the  dead  o'  night  we  heard  a  wild  cry,  but  no 
one  knew  what  it  was.  An  hour  ago  or  less  the 
dogs  were  howling  through  the  house  .  .  .  We 
found  him,  sitting  straight  up  and  staring  at  us, 
with  an  awful  look  on  his  face,  stone  dead.  He 
must  a'  died  at  midnight. 

MALCOLM. 

Who?     Who? 

MARTIN. 

[Poising  a  moment,  ere  he  swings  away 
again.]     Archibald  Graeme  ! 

[His  flying  figure  disappears  in  the  gloom. 
The  mist-wreath  comes  rapidly  out  of  the 
Kyle  towards  the  islet.  A  thin  snow  be- 
gins to  fall.] 

HELDA. 

[Shaken  with  convulsive  sods.]  Oh,  God  ! 
Oh,  God  !     Oh,  God  ! 


The  Black  Madonna. 


Que  donees,  ces  heures  lunaires  .  .  . 
Qu  horribles,  ces  heures  nocturnes  ! 

Le  Barbare. 


The   Black   Madonna. 


[The  fire  of  the  setting  sun  turns  the  extreme 
of  the  forest  into  a  wave  of  flame.     A  river 
of  withdrawing  light  pervades  the  aisles  of 
the  ancient  trees,  and,  falling  over  the  shoul- 
der of  a  vast,  smooth  slab  of  stone  that 
rises  solitary  in  an  open  place,  pours  in  a 
flood  across  the  glade  and  upon  the  broken 
columns  and  inchoate  ruins  of  what  in  im- 
memorial time  had  been  a  gigantic  temple, 
the  fane  of  a  perished  god,  or  of  many  gods. 
As  the  flaming  disc  rapidly  descends,  the 
stream  of  red  light  narrows,  till,  quivering 
and  palpitating,  it  rests  as  a  bloody  sword 
upon   a   colossal   statue   of   black   marble, 
facing  westward.     The  statue  is  that  of  a 
woman,  and  is  as  of  a  Titan  of  old-time. 
A  great   majesty   is   upon   the  face,  with   its 
moveless  yet  seeing  eyes  ;  its  faint,  inscru- 
table smile.     Upon  the  triple-ledged  pedes- 
tal, worn   at   the  edges   like    unto  swords 
ground  again  and  again,  lie  masses  of  large 
white  flowers,  whose  heavy  fragrance  rises 
in  a  faint  blue  vapor  drawn  forth  with  the 
sudden  suspiration  of  the  earth  by  the  first 
twilight  chill. 
In    the    wide    place    beyond    the    white    slab 
of  stone — hurled  thither,  or  raised,  none 
knows  when  or  how  —  is  gathered  a  dark 
multitude,    silent,    expectant.       Many    are 
Arab  tribesmen,  the  remnant  of  a  strange 
sect  driven  southward ;  but  most  are  Nubi- 
ans, or  that  unnamed,  swarthy  race  to  whom 


92  Vistas. 


both  Arab  and  Negro  are  as  children.  All, 
save  the  priests,  of  whom  the  elder  are  clad 
in  white  robes  and  the  younger  girt  about  by 
scarlet  sashes,  are  naked.  Behind  the  men, 
at  a  short  distance  apart,  are  the  women ; 
each  virgin  with  an  ivory  circlet  round  the 
neck,  each  mother  or  pregnant  woman 
with  a  thin  gold  band  round  the  left  arm. 
Between  the  long  double  line  of  the  priests 
and  the  silent  multitude  stands  a  group  of 
five  youths  and  five  maidens;  each  victim 
crowned  with  heavy,  drooping,  white  flow- 
ers ;  each  motionless,  morose  ;  all  with  eyes 
fixt  on  the  trodden  earth  at  their  feet. 
The  younger  priests  suddenly  strike  together 
square  brazen  cymbals,  deeply  chased  with 
signs  and  letters  of  a  perished  tongue.  A 
shrill,  screaming  cry  goes  up  from  the  peo- 
ple, followed  by  a  prolonged  silence.  Not 
a  man  moves,  not  a  woman  sighs.  Only 
a  shiver  contracts  the  skin  of  the  fore- 
most girl  in  the  small  central  group.  Then 
the  elder  priests  advance  slowly,  chanting 
monotonously :] 

CHORUS   OF   THE    PRIESTS. 

We  are  thy  children,  O  mighty  Mother  7 

We  are  the  slain  of  thy  spoil,  O  Slayer  ! 

We  are  thy  thoughts  that  are  fulfilled,  O  Thinker  ! 

Have  pity  upon  us  f 

[And  from   all   the  multitude  comes  as  with 
one  shrill,  screaming  voice  :J 
Have  pity  upon  us  !    Have  pity  upon  us  !    Have 
pity  upon  us  / 

THE    PRIESTS. 

Thou  wast,  before  the  first  child  came  through 

the  dark  gate  of  the  womb  ! 
Thou  wast,  before  ever  woman  knew  man  ! 


The   Black   Madonna. 


93 


Thou  wast,  before   the  shadow  of  man  moved 

athwart  the  grass  / 
Thou  wast,  a?id  thou  art  ! 


THE    MULTITUDE. 

Have  pity   upon    us!      Have  pity   upon    us! 
Have  pity  upon  us! 

THE    PRIESTS. 

Hail,  thou  who  art  more  fair  than  the  dawn, 

more  dark  than  night! 
Hai!,  thou,  white  as  ivory  or  veiled  in  shadow  ! 
Hail,  thou  of  many  names,  and  immortal! 
Hail,  Mother  of  God,  Sister  of  the  Christ,  Bride 

of  the  Prophet! 

THE   MULTITUDE. 

Have  pity    upon    us !      Have  pity    upon    us ! 
Have  pity  upon  us ! 

THE   PRIESTS. 

O  moon  of  night,  O  morning  star  !     Consoler ! 

Slayer  ! 
Thou,  who  lovest  shadow,  and  fear,  and  sudden 

death  ! 
Who  art  the  smile  that  looks  upon  women  and 

children  ! 
Who  hast  the  heart  of  man  in  thy  grip  as  in  a 

vice  ; 
Who  hast  his  pride  and  strength  in  thy  sigh  of 

yestereve  ; 
Who  hast  his  being  in    thy  breath  that  goeth 

forth,  and  is  not! 


94  Vistas. 


THE   MULTITUDE. 

Have  pity    upon    us !      Have  pity    upon    us  I 
Have  pity  upon  us  / 

THE   PRIESTS. 

We  know   thee  not,   nor   the  way  of  thee,    O 

Queen  ! 
But  we  bring  thee  what  thou  lovedst  of  old, 

and  forever : 
The  white  flowers  of  our  forests  and  the    red 

flowers  of  our  bodies  ! 
Take  them  and  slay  not,  O  Slayer  I 
For  we  are  thy  slaves,  O  Mother  of  Life  ! 
We  are  the  dust  of  thy  tireless  feet,  O  Mother 

of  God! 

[As  the  white-robed  priests  advance  slowly 
towards  the  Black  Madonna,  the  younger 
tear  off  their  scarlet  sashes,  and,  seizing 
the  five  maidens,  bind  them  together,  left 
arm  to  right  and  hand  to  hand  :  and  then 
in  like  fashion  do  they  bind  the  five  youths. 
Thereafter  the  victims  move  silently  for- 
ward, till  they  pass  through  the  ranks  of 
the  priests  and  stand  upon  the  lowest  edge 
of  the  pedestal  of  the  great  statue.  Toward 
each  steps,  and  behind  each  stands,  a  naked 
priest,  each  holding  a  narrow,  irregular  sword 
of  antique  fashion.] 

THE    ELDER   PRIESTS. 

O  Mother  of  God  I 

THE    YOUNGER    PRIESTS. 

O  Slayer,  be  pitiful  I 


The   Black  Madonna. 


95 


THE   VICTIMS. 

O  Mother  of  God !     O  Slayer  !  be  merciful! 

THE   MULTITUDE. 

[In  a  loud,  screaming  voice.]  Have  pity 
upon  us!  Have  pity  upon  us!  Have  pity 
upon  us  ! 

[The  last  blood-red  gleam  fades  from  the 
Black  Madonna,  and  flashes  this  way  and 
that  for  a  monent  from  the  ten  sword-knives 
that  cut  the  air  and  plunge  beneath  the 
shoulders  and  to  the  heart  of  each  victim. 
A  wide  spirt  of  blood  rains  upon  the  white 
flowers  at  the  base  of  the  colossal  figure; 
where  also  speedily  lie,  dark  amidst  welling 
crimson,  the  motionless  bodies  of  the 
slain.] 

THE    PRIESTS. 

Behold,  O  Mother  of  God, 

The  white  flowers  of  our  forests  and  the  red 

flowers  of  our  bodies  ! 
Have  pity,  O  Compassionate  ! 
Be  merciful,  O  Queen  ! 

THE   MULTITUDE. 

Have  pity    upon    us !      Have  pity   upon    us ! 
Have  pity  upon  us ! 

[But  at  the  swift  coming  of  the  darkness, 
the  priests  hastily  cover  the  dead  with  the 
masses  of  the  white  flowers ;  and  one  by 
one,  and  group  by  group,  the  multitude 
melts  away.  When  all  are  gone  save  the 
young  chief  Bihr,  and  a  few  of  his  fol- 
lowing,  the    priests    prostrate    themselves 


96  Vistas. 

before   the   Black   Madonna,   and   pray  to 
her  to  vouchsafe  a  sign. 
From  the  mouth  of  the  carven  figure  comes 
a   hollow  voice,  muffled  as  the  reverbera- 
tion of  thunder  among  distant  hills :] 

THE    BLACK    MADONNA. 

I  hearken. 

THE   PRIESTS. 

[Prostrate.]     Wilt  thou  slay,  O  Slayer? 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

Yea,  verily. 

THE   PRIESTS. 

\_Jn   a   rising  chant.~]      Wilt   thou    save,   O 
Mother  of  God? 

THE    BLACK    MADONNA. 

I  save. 

THE   PRIESTS. 

Can  one  see  thee  and  live? 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

At  the  Gate  of  Death. 

[Whereafter  no  sound  comes  from  the  statue, 
already  dim  in  the  darkness  that  has  crept 
from  the  forest.  The  priests  rise,  and  dis- 
appear in  silent  groups  under  the  trees. 

The  thin  crescent  moon  slowly  wanes.  A 
phosphorescent  glow  from  orchids  and  par- 
asitic growths   shimmers   intermittently  in 


The   Black   Madonna.  97 

the  forest.  A  wavering  beam  of  starlight 
falls  upon  the  right  breast  of  the  Black 
Madonna;  then  slowly  downward  to  her 
feet ;  then  upon  the  motionless  figure  of 
Bihr,  the  warrior-chief.  None  saw  him 
steal  thither;  none  knows  that  he  has 
braved  the  wrath  of  the  Slayer :  for  it  is 
the  sacred  time,  when  it  is  death  to  enter 
the  glade.] 

BIHR. 

\In  a  low  voice.~\     Speak,  Spirit  that  dwelleth 

here  from  of  old.  .  .  .  Speak,  for  I  would  have 

word  with  thee.     I  fear  thee  not,  O  Mother  of 

God,  for  the  priests  of  the  Christ  who  is  thy 

brother  say  that  thou  wert  but  a  woman.  .  .  . 

And   it  may  be  —  it   may  be  —  what  say  the 

children  of  the  Prophet  ?  —  that  there  is  but 

one  God,  and  he  is  Allah. 

[Deep  silence.  From  the  desert  beyond  the 
forest  comes  the  hollow  roaring  of  lions.] 

BIHR. 

[///  a  loud  chant.']  To  the  north  and  to  the 
east  I  have  seen  many  figures  like  unto  thine, 
gods  and  goddesses  :  some  mightier  than  thou 
art — vast  sphinxes  by  the  flood  of  Nilus,  gigan- 
tic faces  rising  out  of  the  sands  of  the  desert. 
And  none  spake,  for  silence  is  come  upon  them  ; 
and  none  slays,  for  the  strength  of  the  gods 
passes  away  even  as  the  strength  of  men. 

[Deep  silence.  From  the  obscure  waste  of 
the  forest  come  snarling  cries,  long-drawn 
howls,  and  the  low,  moaning  sigh  of  the 
wind.] 


98  Vistas. 


BIHR. 

[Mockingly."]     For  I  will  not  be  thrall  to  a 

woman,  and  the  priests  shall  not  bend  me  to 

their  will   as  a  slave   unto  the  yoke.     If  thou 

thyself  art  God,  speak,  and  I  shall  be  thy  slave 

to  do  thy  will.  .  .  .  Thrice  have  I  come  hither 

at  the  new  moon,  and  thrice  do  I  go  hence  un- 

comforted.  .  .  .  What   voice   was    that    which 

spoke  ere  the  victims  died  ?     I  know  not ;  but 

it  hath  reached  mine  ears  never  save  when  the 

priests  are  by.     Nay  [laughing  low'] ,  O  Mother 

of  God,  I  — 

[Suddenly  he  trembles  all  over  and  falls  on 
his  knees,  for  from  the  blackness  above 
him  comes  a  voice  :] 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

What  would'st  thou? 

BIHR. 

[Hoarsely.']    Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  Queen  ! 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

What  would'st  thou? 

BIHR. 

I  worship  thee,  Mother  of  God  !     Slayer  and 
Saver ! 

THE    BLACK    MADONNA. 

What  would'st  thou  ? 


The  Black  Madonna.  99 


BIHR. 

[  Tremulously."]   Show  me  thyself,  thyself,  even 
for  this  one  time,  O  Strength  and  Wisdom  ! 

[Deep  silence.  The  wind  in  the  forest  passes 
away  with  a  faint  wailing  sound.  The  dull 
roaring  of  lions  rises  and  falls  in  the  dis- 
tance. A  soft,  yellow  light  illumes  the 
statue,  as  though  another  moon  were  ris- 
ing behind  the  temple. 

A  great  terror  comes  upon  Bihr  the  Chief,  and 
he  falls  prostrate  at  the  base  of  the  Black 
Madonna. 

His  eyes  are  open,  but  they  see  naught  save 
the  burnt  spikes  of  trodden  grass,  sere  and 
stiff  save  where  damp  with  newly  shed 
blood;  and  deaf  are  his  ears,  though  he 
waits  for  he  knows  not  what  sound  from 
above. 

Suddenly  he  starts,  and  the  sweat  mats  the 
hair  on  his  forehead  when  he  feels  a  touch 
on  his  right  shoulder.  Looking  slowly 
round  he  sees  a  woman,  tall  and  of  a  lithe 
and  noble  body.  He  sees  that  her  skin  is 
dark,  yet  not  of  the  blackness  of  the  South. 
Two  spheres  of  wrought  gold  cover  her 
breasts ;  and  from  the  serpentine  zone 
round  her  waist  is  looped  a  dusky  veil, 
spangled  with  shining  points.  In  her  eyes, 
large  as  those  of  the  desert-antelope,  is 
the  loveliness  and  the  pathos  and  the  pain 
of  twilight.] 

BIHR. 

[Trembling.]     Art  thou  —  art  thou  — 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

I  am  she  whom  thou  worshippest. 


ioo  Vistas. 

BIHR. 

\_Looki?ig  at  the  colossal  statue,  irradiated  by 
the  strange  light  that  comes  he  knows  not  whence; 
and  then  at  the  beautiful  apparition  by  his  side.~\ 
Thou  art  the  Black  Madonna,  the  Mother  of 
God! 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

Thou  sayest  it. 

BIHR. 

\_Slowly  raising  himself,  and  resting  on  one 
knee.~\     Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer,  O  Queen  ! 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

Even  so. 

BIHR. 

[  Taking  heart  because  of  the  sweet  and  thril- 
ling humanity  of  the  goddess.']  O  Slayer  and 
Saver,  is  the  lightning  thine  and  the  fire  that 
is  in  the  earth  ?  Canst  thou  whirl  the  stars  as 
from  a  sling,  and  light  the  mountainous  lands 
to  the  South  with  falling  meteors?  O  Queen, 
destroy  me  not,  for  I  am  thy  slave,  and  weaker 
than  thy  breath  :  but  canst  thou  stretch  forth 
thine  hand  and  say  yea  to  the  lightning,  and 
bid  silence  unto  the  thunder  ere  it  breed  the 
bolts  that  smite?     For  if  — 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

I  make  and  I  unmake.  This  cometh  and 
that  goeth,  and  I  am  — 


The  Black   Madonna.         101 

BIHR. 

And  thou  art  — 

THE    BLACK    MADONNA. 

I  was  Ashtaroth  of  old.  Men  have  called 
me  many  names.  All  things  change,  but  I 
change  not.  Know  me,  O  slave  !  I  am  the 
Mother  of  God.  I  am  the  Sister  of  the  Christ. 
I  am  the  Bride  of  the  Prophet. 

BIHR. 

[  With  awe.']  And  thou  art  the  very  Prophet, 
and  the  very  Christ,  and  the  very  God  !  Each 
speaketh  in  thee,  who  art  older  than  they  are  : 
each  — 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

I  am  the  Prophet. 

BIHR. 

Hail,  O  Lord  of  Deliverance  ! 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

I  am  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  God. 

BIHR. 

Hail,  O  most  Patient,  most  Merciful ! 

THE    BLACK    MADONNA. 

I  am  the  Lord  thy  God. 

BIHR. 

Hail,  Giver  of  Life  and  Death  ! 


102  Vistas. 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

Yet  here  none  is ;  for  each  goeth  or  each 
cometh  as  I  will.     I  only  am  eternal. 

BIHR. 

\Crawling  foj'ward  and  kissing  her  Jeet.~\ 
Behold,  I  am  thy  slave  to  do  thy  will :  thy 
sword  to  slay :  thy  spear  to  follow :  thy  hound 
to  track  thine  enemies.  I  am  dust  beneath  thy 
feet.     Do  with  me  as  thou  wilt. 

THE    BLACK    MADONNA. 

[Slowly,  and  looking  at  him  strangely. ~\  Thou 
shalt  be  my  High  Priest.  .  .  .  Come  back  to- 
morrow, an  hour  after  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

[As  Bihr  the  Chief  rises  and  goes  into  the 
shadow,  she  stares  steadily  after  him ;  and 
a  deep  fear  dwells  in  the  twilight  of  her 
eyes.  Then,  turning,  she  stands  awhile  by 
the  slain  bodies  of  the  victims  of  the  sac- 
rifice ;  and,  having  lightly  brushed  away 
with  her  foot  the  flowers  above  each  face, 
looks  long  on  the  mystery  of  death.  And 
when  at  last  she  glides  by  the  great  statue 
and  passes  into  the  ruins  beyond,  there  is 
no  longer  any  glow  of  light,  and  a  deep  dark- 
ness covers  the  glade.  From  the  deeper 
darkness  beyond  comes  the  howling  of  hy- 
enas, the  shrill  screaming  of  a  furious  beast 
of  prey,  and  the  sudden  bursting  roar  of  lion 
answering  lion. 

When  the  dawn  breaks,  and  a  pale,  wavering 
light  glimmers  athwart  the  smooth,  white 
crag  that,  on  the  farther  verge  of  the  glade, 
faces  the  Black  Madonna,  there  is  nought 
upon  the  pedestal  save  a  ruin  of  bloodied, 
trampled  flowers,  though  the  sere,  yellow 
grass  is  stained  in   long  trails  across  the 


The   Black   Madonna.  103 

open.  The  dawn  withdraws  again,  but  ere 
long  suddenly  wells  forth,  and  it  is  as 
though  the  light  wind  were  bearing  over 
the  forest  a  multitude  of  soft,  grey  feath- 
ers from  the  breasts  of  doves.  Then  the 
dim  concourse  of  feathers  is  as  though  in- 
numerable leaves  of  wild  roses  were  falling, 
falling,  petal  by  petal  uncurling  into  a  rosy 
flame  that  wafts  upward  and  onward.  The 
stars  have  grown  suddenly  pale,  and  the 
fires  of  Phosphor  burn  green  in  the  midst 
of  a  palpitating  haze  of  pink.  With  a 
mighty  rush,  the  sun  swings  through  the 
gates  of  the  East,  tossing  aside  his  golden, 
fiery  mane  as  he  fronts  the  new  day. 

And  the  going  of  the  day  is  from  morning 
silence  unto  noon  silence,  and  from  the 
silence  of  the  afternoon  unto  the  silence 
of  the  eve.  Once  more,  towards  the  set- 
ting of  the  sun,  the  multitude  comes  out 
of  the  forest,  from  the  east  and  from  the 
west,  and  from  the  north  and  from  the 
south :  once  more  the  priests  sing  the  sa- 
cred hymns :  once  more  the  people  sup- 
plicate as  with  one  shrill,  screaming  voice, 
Have  pity  upon  us  J  Have  pity  upon  us! 
Have  pity  upon  us  !  Once  more  the  victims 
are  slain :  of  little  children  who  might  one 
day  shake  the  spear  and  slay,  five  ;  and  of 
little  children  who  would  one  day  bear  and 
bring  forth,  five. 

Yet  again  an  hour  passes  after  the  setting  of 
the  sun.  There  is  no  moon  to  lighten  the 
darkness  and  the  silence;  but  a  soft  glow 
falleth  from  the  temple,  and  upon  the  man 
who  kneels  before  the  Black  Madonna. 
But  when  Bihr,  having  no  sign  vouchsafed, 
and  hearing  no  sound,  and  discerning  nought 
upon  the  carven  face,  neither  tremor  of  the 
lips  nor  life  in  the  lifeless  eyes,  suddenly 
sees  the  goddess,  glorious  in  her  beauty 
that  is  as  of  the  night,  coming  towards  him 
from  out  of  the  ruins,  his  heart  leaps  within 


104  Vistas. 

him  in  strange  joy  and  dread.  Scarce  know- 
ing what  he  does,  he  springs  to  his  feet, 
trembling  as  a  reed  that  leans  against  the 
flank  of  a  lioness  by  the  water-pool.] 

BIHR. 

[  Yearningly,  with  supplicating  arms.~\     Hail, 

God  !  .  .  .  Goddess  !     Most  Beautiful  ! 

[She  draws  nigh  to  him,  looking  at  him  the 
while  out  of  the  deep  twilight  of  her  eyes.] 

THE    BLACK    MADONNA. 

What  would'st  thou? 

BIHR. 

[  Wildly,  stepping  close,  but  halting  in  dread."] 
Thou  art  no  Mother  of  God,  O  Goddess,  Queen, 
Most  Beautiful ! 

THE    BLACK    MADONNA. 

What  would'st  thou,  O  blind  fool  that  art  so 
in  love  with  death  ? 

BIHR. 

\_Hoarsely.~]  Make  me  like  unto  thyself,  for 
I  love  thee  ! 

[Deep  silence.  From  afar  on  the  desert 
comes  the  dull  roaring  of  lions  by  the 
water-courses;  from  the  forest,  a  murmur- 
ous sound  as  of  baffled  winds  snared  among 
the  thick-branched  ancient  trees.] 

BIHR. 

[Sobbing  as  one  wounded  in  flight  by  an 
arrow. ~\  For  I  love  thee  !  I  —  love  —  thee  ! 
I  — 


The   Black   Madonna.         105 

[Deep  silence.  A  shrill  screaming  of  a  bird 
fascinated  by  a  snake  comes  from  the 
forest.  Beyond,  from  the  desert,  a  long, 
desolate  moaning  and  howling,  where  the 
hyenas  prowl  ] 

THE    BLACK    MADONNA. 

When  .  .  .  did  .  .  .  thy  folly,  .  .  .  this 
madness,  .  .  .  come  upon  thee,  .  .  .  O  fool? 

BIHR. 

[Passionately.']  O  Most  Beautiful !  Most 
Beautiful  !     Thee  —  Thee  —  will  I  worship  ! 

THE    BLACK    MADONNA. 

Go  hence,  lest  I  slay  thee  ! 

BIHR. 

Slay,  O  Slayer,  for  thou  art  Life  and  Death  ! 
.  .  .  But  I  go  not  hence.  I  love  thee  !  I 
love  thee  !     I  love  thee  ! 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

I  am  the  Mother  of  God. 

BIHR. 

I  love  thee  ! 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

God  dwelleth  in  me.     I  am  thy  God 

BIHR. 

I  love  thee  ! 


106  Vistas. 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

Go  hence,  lest  I  slay  thee  ! 

BIHR. 

Thou  tremblest,  O  Mother  of  God  !  Thy 
lips  twitch,  thy  breasts  heave,  O  thou  who  call- 
est  thyself  God  ! 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

[Raising  her  right  arm  menacingly, .]  Go 
hence,  thou  dog,  lest  thou  look  upon  my  face 
no  more. 

[Then  suddenly,  with  bowed  head  and  shak- 
ing limbs,  Bihr  the  Chief  turns  and  passes 
into  the  forest.  And  as  he  fades  into  the 
darkness,  the  Black  Madonna  stares  a  long 
while  after  him,  and  a  deep  fear  broods 
in  the  twilight  of  her  eyes.  But  by  the 
bodies  of  the  slain  children  she  passes  at 
last,  and  with  a  shudder  looks  not  upon 
their  faces,  but  strews  the  heavy  white 
flowers  more  thickly  upon  them. 

The  darkness  comes  out  of  the  darkness,  bil- 
low welling  forth  from  spent  billow  on  the 
tides  of  night.  On  the  obscure  waste  of 
the  glade,  nought  moves  save  the  gaunt 
shadow  of  a  hyena  that  crawls  from  column 
to  column.  From  the  blackness  beyond 
swells  the  long,  thunderous  howl  of  a  lion- 
ess, echoing  the  hollow  blasting  roar  of  a 
lion  standing,  with  eyes  of  yellow  flame,  on 
the  summit  of  the  mass  of  smooth  rock 
that  faces  the  carven  Madonna. 

And  when  the  dawn  breaks,  and  long  lines  of 
pearl-gray  wavelets  ripple  in  a  flood  athwart 
the  black-green  sweep  of  the  forest,  there  is 
nought  upon  the  pedestal  but  red  flowers 


The   Black   Madonna.         107 

that  once  were  white,  rent  and  scattered 
this  way  and  that.  The  cool  wind  moving 
against  the  east  ruffles  the  opaline  flood 
into  a  flying  foam  of  pink,  wherefrom  mists 
and  vapors  rise  on  wings  like  rosy  flames  ; 
and  as  they  rise,  their  crests  shine  as  with 
blazing  gold,  and  they  fare  forth  after  the 
Morn  that  leaps  towards  the  Sun. 

And  the  going  of  the  day  is  from  morning 
silence  unto  noon  silence,  and  from  the 
silence  of  the  afternoon  unto  the  silence 
of  eve.  Once  more,  towards  the  setting 
of  the  sun,  the  multitude  comes  out  of  the 
forest,  from  the  east  and  from  the  west, 
and  from  the  north  and  from  the  south. 
Once  more  the  priests  sing  the  sacred 
hymns :  once  more  the  people  supplicate 
as  with  one  shrill,  screaming  voice,  Have 
pity  upon  us  !  Have  pity  upon  us  !  Have 
pity  upon  us!  Once  more  the  victims  are 
slain :  five  chiefs  of  captives  taken  in  war ; 
and  unto  each  chief,  two  warriors  in  the 
glory  of  youth. 

Yet  an  hour  after  the  setting  of  the  sun.  Light- 
less  the  silence  and  the  dark,  save  for  the 
soft,  yellow  gleam  that  falleth  from  the 
temple,  and  upon  the  man  who,  crested 
with  an  ostrich  plume  bound  by  a  heavy 
circlet  of  gold,  with  a  tiger-skin  about  his 
shoulders,  and  with  a  great  spear  in  his 
hand,  stands  beyond  the  statue  and  nigh 
unto  the  ruins,  where  no  man  has  ven- 
tured and  lived.] 

BIHR. 

[  With  load,  triumphant  voiced]     Come  forth, 

my  Bride  ! 

[Deep  silence,  save  for  the  sighing  of  the' wind 
among  the  upper  branches  of  the  trees,  and 
the  panting  of  the  flying  deer  beyond  the 
glade.] 


108  Vistas. 

BIHR. 

\_Striking  his  spear  against  the  marble  steps.'] 

Come  forth,  Glory  of  my  eyes  !     Come  forth, 

Pride  of  my  delight ! 

[Deep  silence.  Then  there  is  a  faint  sound, 
and  the  Black  Madonna  stands  beside  Bihr 
the  Chief.  And  the  man  is  wrought  to 
madness  by  her  beauty,  and  lusts  after  her, 
and  possesses  her  with  the  passion  of  his 
eyes.] 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

[Trembling,  and  strangely  troubled?^  What 
would 'st  thou? 

BIHR. 

Thee! 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

[Slowly.']  Young  art  thou,  Bihr,  in  thy 
comeliness  and  strength  to  be  so  in  love  with 
death. 

BIHR. 

Who  giveth  life  ?  and  who  death  ?  It  is  not 
thou,  nor  I. 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

[Shuddering.]     It  cometh.    None  can  stay  it. 

BIHR. 

Not  thou?     Even  thou  canst  not  stay  it? 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

[Whisperingly.]  Nay,  Bihr;  and  this  thing 
thou  knowest  in  thy  heart. 


The  Black  Madonna.         109 


BIHR. 


[Mockingly.']     O  Mother  of  God  !     O  Sister 
of  Christ !     O  Bride  of  the  Prophet ! 

THE   BLACK   MADONNA. 

{Putting   her   hand    to   her  heart.]      What 
would' st  thou  ! 

BIHR. 

Thee! 

THE    BLACK   MADONNA. 

I   am   the    Slayer,    the   Terrible,   the   Black 
Madonna. 

BIHR. 

And  lo,  thy  God  laugheth  at  thee,  even  as  at 

me  and  mine.     And  lo,  I  am  come  for  thee; 

for  I  have  made  myself  his  Prophet,  and  thou 

art  to  be  my  Bride. 

[As  he  finishes  he  turns  towards  the  great 
Statue  of  the  Black  Madonna  and,  laugh- 
ing, hurls  his  spear  against  its  breast, 
whence  the  weapon  rebounds  with  a  loud 
clang.  Then,  ere  the  woman  knows  what 
he  has  done,  he  leaps  to  her  and  seizes  her 
in  his  grasp,  and  kisses  her  upon  the  lips, 
and  grips  her  with  his  hands  till  the  veins 
sting  in  her  arms.  And  all  the  sovereignty 
of  her  lonely  godhood  passes  from  her 
like  the  dew  before  the  hot  breath  of  the 
sun,  and  her  heart  throbs  against  his  side 
so  that  his  ears  ring  as  with  the  clang  of 
the  gongs  of  battle.  He  sobs  low,  as  a 
man  amidst  baffling  waves ;  and  in  the 
hunger  of  his  desire  she  sinks  as  one  who 
drowns. 


no  Vistas. 

Together  they  go  up  the  long,  flat  marble  steps; 
together  they  pass  into  the  darkness  of  the 
ruins.     From  the  deeper  darkness  beyond 
comes  no  sound,  for  the  forest  is  strangely 
still.     Not  a  beast  of  prey  comes  nigh  unto 
the  slain  victims  of  the  sacrifice,  not  a  vul- 
ture falls  like  a  cloud  through  the  night. 
Only,  from   afar,   the   dull    roaring  of   the 
lions  billows  heavily  from  the  water-courses 
on  the  desert. 
And  the  wind  that  blows  in  the  night  comes 
with  rain  and  storm,  so  that  when  the  dawn 
breaks  it  is  as  a  sea  of  sullen  waves  grey 
with  sleet.     But  calm  cometh  out  of  the 
blood-red  splendor  of  the  east. 
And  on  this,  the  morning  of  the  fourth  and 
last  day  of  the  Festival  of  the  Black  Ma- 
donna, the   multitude   of   her  worshippers 
come  forth  from  the  forest,  singing  a  glad 
song.     In  front  go  the  warriors,  the  young 
men    brandishing    spears,   and   with   their 
knives  in  their  left  hands  cutting  the  flesh 
upon  their  sides  and  upon  their  thighs  :  the 
men  of  the  North  clad  in  white  garb  and 
heavy  burnous,  the  tribesmen  of  the  South 
naked  save  for  their  loin-girths,  but  plumed 
as  for  war. 
But  as  the  priests  defile  beyond  them  upon 
the   glade,   a  strange,  new  song  goes   up 
from    the    shaven    lips;    and    the    people 
tremble,   for    they    know   that    some    dire 
thing  has  happened.] 

THE   PRIESTS. 

[Chanting.]  Lo,  when  the  law  of  the  Queen 
is  fulfilled,  she  passeth  from  her  people  awhile. 
For  the  Mother  of  God  loveth  the  world,  and 
would  go  in  sacrifice.  So  loveth  us  the  Mother 
of  God  that  she  passeth  in  sacrifice.  Behold, 
she  perisheth,  who  dieth  not.1  Behold,  she 
dieth,  who  is  immortal! 


The  Black  Madonna.         m 

[Whereupon  a  great  awe  comes  on  the  mul- 
titude, as  they  behold  smoke,  whirling  and 
darkly  fulgurant,  issuing  from  the  mouth 
and  nostrils  of  the  Black  Madonna.  But 
this  awe  passes  into  horror,  and  horror 
into  wild  fear,  when  great  tongues  of 
flame  shoot  forth  amidst  the  wreaths  of 
smoke,  and  when  from  forth  of  the  Black 
Madonna  come  strange  and  horrible  cries, 
as  though  a  mortal  woman  were  perishing 
by  the  torture  of  fire. 

With  shrieks  the  women  turn  and  fly :  hurling 
their  spears  from  them,  the  men  dash  wildly 
to  the  forest,  heedless  whither  they  flee. 

But  those  that  leap  to  the  westward,  where 
the  great  white  rock  facing  the  Black  Ma- 
donna stands  solitary,  see  for  a  moment, 
in  the  glare  of  sunrise,  a  swarthy,  naked 
figure,  with  a  tiger-skin  about  the  should- 
ers, crucified  against  the  smooth  white 
slope.  Down  from  the  outspread  hands 
of  Bihr  the  Chief  trickle  two  long  waver- 
ing streamlets  of  blood:  two  long  stream- 
lets of  blood  drip,  drip  down  the  white, 
glaring  face  of  the  rock  from  the  pierced 
feet. 


The  Last  Quest. 


Death    hath    not  yet  come    unto    the    man   who 
knoweth  not  that  he  is  dead. 

Johannes  Arbiter:  Myst. 


The  Last  Quest. 


[As  in  a  vision  .  .  .  the  furious  charge  through 
the  smoke  and  across  the  corpse-strewn  bat- 
tlefield :  the  neighing  and  sobbing  of  horses ; 
the  hoarse  cries,  the  sudden  screams  of 
men :  the  clang  and  whistle  of  swords :  the 
shrill  spurting  of  a  hail  of  bullets  :  the 
bursting  crash  and  roar  of  artillery :  a 
wild  rush,  a  wild  onslaught,  and  —  Victory  ! 
.  .  .  and  .  .  . 

And  as  I  clomb  the  barren  and  difficult  steep, 
I  yearned  for  a  fellow-creature,  for  but  the 
hollow  echo  of  a  distant  voice,  even  more  than 
for  escape  from  the  twilit  solitudes  of  this 
hill  whereup  I  toiled,  forgetful  whence  I  came 
and  knowing  not  whither  I  went.  And  it 
seemed  to  me  as  though  years  upon  years  went 
over  me  in  my  long,  ceaseless  effort ;  but  when, 
with  a  triumph  that  was  yet  no  triumph,  at  last 
I  gained  the  crest,  I  still  heard  in  my  ears  the 
fanfare  of  the  bugles,  the  clash  of  swords,  the 
mad  rush  and  fury  and  turmoil  of  the  charge, 
while  my  lips  quivered  still  with  the  sudden 
scream  of  Victory. 

And  when  I  stood  upon  the  summit,  I  saw 
that  I  was  in  a  strange  land.     Behind  me  lay  a 


n6  Vistas. 

vast  plain,  margined  afar  off,  in  the  direction  by 
which  it  seemed  to  me  I  had  come,  by  obscure, 
impenetrable  forests.  Immeasurably  upon  this 
plain  was  ruin  of  ungarnered  harvest.  Leagues 
upon  leagues  to  the  east  and  west  without  end, 
and  everywhere  the  grain  ungathered ;  and 
nought  astir  save  a  thin  dust  of  chaff,  idly 
blown  hither  and  thither  by  a  wind  that  was 
yet  too  light  to  move  the  dark  poppies  that  lay 
in  the  hollows,  —  too  faint  to  bend  an  ear  of 
that  unlifted  grain.  Veiled  moonlight  shone 
upon  the  waste,  so  that  even  through  the  gloom 
I  could  see  that  nought  moved,  nought  stirred  : 
not  even  an  owl  swept  with  stealthy  wing  above 
the  forlorn  lands,  not  even  a  bat  circled  through 
the  dusk,  not  even  a  cloud  trailed  a  deeper 
shadow  from  solitude  to  solitude.  But  as  I 
looked  closer  and  wonderingly,  and  now  with  a 
great  weariness  of  longing,  I  saw  that  every  here 
and  there  the  sheaves  had  been  brought  to- 
gether as  though  the  reapers  had  suddenly 
ceased  from  their  labor  and  had  gone  to  make 
ready  for  the  harvesting.  Yet,  for  the  most 
part,  the  sheaves  were  but  loosely  gathered,  and 
all  untied,  and  with  the  ground  near  strewn 
with  the  rich  grain  that  had,  as  it  were,  been 
abruptly  dropped.  And  everywhere,  far  and 
wide,  were  single  sheaves  or  small  gatherings, 
as  though  the  harvesters  had  been  weary  or 
heedless ;  and  often  sheaves  that  seemed  as 
though  they  had  been  wittingly  defiled  or  de- 
stroyed. But  now  all  the  ungarnered  harvest 
lay  silently  there  in  the  twilight ;  and  no  man 


The  Last  Quest.  117 

came  unto  that  which  was  ready  for  the  gath- 
ering, and  no  man  passed  by  that  which  had 
been  idly  thrown  aside  or  ruined  in  wanton- 
ness. And  amidst  it  all,  this  vast  harvest  which 
stretched  beyond  sight  to  the  uttermost  ends  of 
the  earth,  there  was  nothing  further  visible  but 
the  dark-red  poppies  of  oblivion.  Of  all  this 
immeasurable  toil,  of  all  this  majesty  of  deso- 
lation, there  was  nought  save  a  thin,  vanishing 
dust  of  chaff,  faint  as  a  perishing  smoke  over 
woodlands  where  a  fire  has  been,  but  is  no 
more. 

Then  as  one  rousing  from  sleep  into  day- 
light, I  turned  and  looked  beyond  me.  Be- 
hold, here  too  was  a  vast  plain  that  stretched 
beyond  the  scan  of  mortal  eyes.  The  sunlight 
lay  upon  it,  and  it  was  glorious  to  look  upon. 
A  sweet  wind  came  out  of  the  blue  hollows  of 
the  sky,  where  white  clouds  voyaged  bearing 
soft  rains  and  cool  shadows  :  and  there  was  so 
wild  and  glad  a  music  of  birds  over  the  illimi- 
table savannas  of  golden  grain,  and  of  young 
corn  green  as  the  heart  of  a  shallow  sea,  that  I 
felt  as  though  all  the  joy  of  my  youth  was  upon 
me,  and  my  heart  swelled,  and  the  blood  stung 
in  my  veins.  But  ere  long  I  looked  with 
amazement,  for  in  all  that  unfrontiered  land 
beyond  me  I  saw  neither  man  nor  woman.  Yet 
evermore,  from  the  east  to  the  west,  swept  a 
gigantic  shadow  like  unto  a  scythe  :  and  where 
the  shadow  swept,  the  grain  fell.  And  when  I 
looked  again  I  beheld  a  mighty  Shape,  clothed 
in  the  dusk  of  shadow  as  with  a  veil,  and  clad 


1 1 8  Vistas. 

with  dropping  decays  as  with  a  tattered  robe 
rent  by  the  wind.  Ever  and  forever  the  Reaper 
strode,  with  blind,  oblivious  eyes,  with  vast 
scythe  furrowing  the  sunlit  grain  :  and  it  seemed 
to  me,  while  I  watched,  as  though  the  minutes 
passed  into  hours,  and  the  hours  into  days,  and 
the  days  into  years,  and  the  years  into  the 
timeless  wastes  of  eternity.  Looking  suddenly 
back  upon  the  twilit  land  which  first  I  had 
brooded  upon,  I  saw  that  its  margins  were  as 
the  moving  tides  of  ocean,  and  that  the  Reaper 
reaped  where  the  grain  grew  by  the  fallen  grain. 
And  there  was  no  rest,  no  end  to  the  long 
sweep  of  the  shadowy  scythe.  Ever,  forever, 
the  scythe  swept :  ever,  forever,  the  grain  fell. 
The  sun  shone,  the  birds  sang,  the  world 
smiled ;  and,  by  the  margins  of  the  Hollow 
Land,  where  the  grain  rose  the  grain  fell. 

Then  a  terror  that  was  of  life  overmastered 
the  terror  that  was  of  death,  and  I  strained  my 
eyes  so  that  I  might  see  some  living  thing  of 
my  own  kind.  But  only  the  rays  of  the  sun 
penetrated  the  womb  of  the  earth,  and  only  the 
endless  concourse  of  the  grain  was  delivered  of 
the  unwearying  mother.  It  seemed  to  me, 
then,  as  though  the  green  corn  and  the  golden 
ears  were  but  as  the  multitude  of  lives  that  come 
forth  at  the  rising  of  the  sun,  and  are  no  more 
at  the  setting.  And  as  I  looked  with  awe  and 
terror  upon  the  Reaper,  who  reaped  forever 
and  ever  where  the  grain  rose  and  the  grain 
fell,  I  turned  and  stared  beyond  the  westering 
sun.     And  lo,  I  beheld  yet  Another.     A  glory 


The  Last  Quest.  119 

of  golden  light  he  seemed,  clad  with  ever 
evanishing  rainbows,  and  crowned  with  the 
auroral  flames  of  summer  dawns. 

Vast  was  he  as  the  Reaper ;  but  as  he  fared 
beyond  the  pathway  of  the  sun,  he  was  as  the 
glory  and  joy  of  eternal  youth.  He,  too, 
swayed  an  arm,  even  as  the  mighty  scythe- 
sweep  of  the  Reaper,  an  arm  of  glowing  light : 
and  therewith  I  saw  that  he  sowed  a  living  seed 
forever  and  ever.  As  I  watched  the  Sower  in 
the  blinding  splendor  of  the  sunlight,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  he  moved  onward  as  he  sowed ;  and 
it  was  with  me  as  though  the  minutes  were  like 
unto  hours,  and  the  hours  like  unto  days,  and 
the  days  unto  years,  and  the  years  unto  the 
immeasurable  wastes  of  eternity. 

Then,  with  a  great  cry,  I  ran  down  the 
slopes  of  the  steep  whereon  I  was ;  for  my 
heart  was  fain  to  follow  the  beautiful  Sower, 
and  my  soul  full  of  dread  of  the  Reaper  that 
reaped  forever.  But  when  I  came  unto  the 
base  of  the  hill,  and  to  the  end  of  the  gloomy 
pass  that  issued  thence,  I  went  no  further. 
For  over  against  me  rose  a  vast  wall  of  black 
basalt,  and  upon  it,  in  letters  of  white  flame, 
were  the  words  of  my  agony.  And  when  I 
read  TOO  SOON,  I  turned  me  in  my  despair, 
and  with  bitterness  of  grief  clomb  again  the 
perilous  steep. 

When  once  more  I  had  gained  the  summit,  I 
had  no  heart  to  look  where  the  glory  of  the  sun 
fell  about  the  Sower,  sowing  his  living  seed 
forever  and  ever.     But    when  I    looked  again 


120  Vistas. 

upon  the  Reaper  —  with  mighty  scythe  laying 
low  without  end,  without  rest,  where  the  grain 
rose  and  the  grain  fell  —  I  cried  aloud  in  my 
extremity  of  dread. 

Thereafter,  it  seemed  to  me  that  in  the 
Hollow  Land  behind  me  was  peace.  So  passed 
I  down  the  hill,  and  through  the  twilit  waste  of 
all  that  ungarnered  harvest.  And  there  was  no 
sound  there,  and  nought  stirred,  save  the  slow, 
thin  fall  of  the  dust  among  the  hollows  forever 
upon  the  dark- red  poppies  of  oblivion. 

And  I  know  not  how  long  I  fared,  or 
whither  ;  but  at  last,  weary  —  weary  unto  death 
of  that  harvest  that  should  never  be  gathered  — 
I  came  nigh  unto  the  obscure  forest  I  had  seen 
from  the  hill-summit  from  afar.  And  I  was 
glad,  for  I  was  weary  of  the  Hollow  Land. 

But  when  I  would  enter  the  wood,  I  saw 
that  the  growths  were  intricately  drawn  against 
yet  another  wall  of  black  basalt.  And  as  I 
stood,  pondering,  I  beheld  two  mighty  portals, 
and  betwixt  them  a  huge  mass  of  marble  like 
unto  the  tomb.  And  in  great  letters  carven 
thereon  were  the  words  :  TOO  LATE. 


The  Fallen  God. 


Christian 

.  .  .  nay,  but  doth  not  God  owe  that  which  He  hath 
promised? 

Pagan 
He  payeth  in  divers  ways. 

Christian 

Is  not  His  glory  my  glory,  for  lo  He  dwelleth  in 
me  and  I  in  Him  ? 

Pagan 

Even  so.     Thus  hath  it  ever  been,  O  worshipper 

of  thi?ie  own  soul ! 

The  Idolater. 


The  Fallen  God. 


[A  vast  hollow  among  barren  hills,  whereon 
no  living  thing  moves  or  has  being,  and 
where  no  flower  blooms,  no  grass  or  any 
green  thing  grows  ever.  Above  the  sheer 
slopes  of  the  hills  reaches  the  immense 
empty  void  of  the  sky,  wherein  there  is  no 
sun  and  no  moon,  wherein  no  stars  mark 
a  change  that  never  comes,  no  clouds  wan- 
der before  the  shepherd-wind  that  blows 
never. 

At  the  far  rise  of  the  hollow  —  so  vast  that 
echoes  from  the  gorge  issuing  at  the  hither 
end  wander  idly  into  silence  ere  their  whis- 
pers faint  midway  —  is  a  gigantic  fallen 
altar,  ancient  beyond  the  ken  of  man,  and 
prostrate  as  it  lay  even  in  dim  antiquity. 
Behind  it  stretches  to  the  right  and  to  the 
left,  and  reaches  upward  into  the  lifeless 
sky,  a  sheer  smooth  wall  of  basalt,  polished 
as  ice  and  black  as  the  grave.  And  upon 
this  ruined,  ancient  altar,  as  upon  a  throne, 
sits  the  Prophet :  in  his  eyes  a  woe  more 
terrible  than  the  desolation  of  the  sky  over- 
head —  a  terror  of  loneliness  more  awful 
than  that  of  the  barren  hills. 

All  the  valley  —  from  the  base  of  the  gigantic 
fallen  altar  even  unto  the  hithermost  end, 
whereby  all  may  come  but  none  may  go  — 
is  filled  with  an  innumerable  throng,  so 
dense  that  no  man  might  pass  through 
these  close  ranks.     In  all   the  valley  and 


124  Vistas. 


upon  all  the  hills  nothing  stirs,  nothing 
moves. 
In  the  forefront  of  this  silent  concourse  stand 
the  dead  kings ;  and  behind  them,  rows 
upon  rows,  the  high  priests  of  the  people. 
Even  as  though  in  one  motionless  stare, 
all  look  upon  the  Prophet,  the  herald  of 
their  eternal  joy.  And  in  a  low,  hollow 
voice,  that  yet  is  heard  of  all,  as  though  a 
rumor  of  earthquake  and  awful  thunder 
were  echoing  from  the  desolate  void,  the 
Prophet  speaks :] 

THE   PROPHET. 

What  would  ye  ? 

[As  a  sigh  that  goes  before  the  autumnal 
wind,  the  dead  kings  speak :  and  the 
woe  in  the  face  of  the  Prophet  passes 
understanding :] 

THE   KINGS. 

We  are  even  as  the  dust  upon  the  highway. 
O  Prophet,  where  is  our  God  ?  We  would  look 
upon  him  face  to  face. 

[Looking  upon  them,  with  eyes  wherein  the 
last  hope  nickers  unto  death,  the  Prophet 
answers :] 

THE   PROPHET. 

There  is  no  God. 

[Terrible  is  the  wail  from  the  people,  from  one 
and  from  all  throughout  that  dense  throng ; 
but  silence  comes  upon  them  as  a  wave,  as 
the  priests  stretch  forth  their  arms  and 
supplicate :] 


The  Fallen  God.  125 

THE    PRIESTS. 

Far  have  we  fared,  and  bitter  has  been  the 
way,  O  Prophet  of  God  !  Lead  us  now  to  the 
God  whom  we  worship,  lest  we  perish  ere  he 
gather  us  to  his  fold. 

THE   PROPHET. 

What  would  ye,  O  blind  leaders  of  the 
blind? 

THE   PRIESTS. 

Our  God  !     Our  God  ! 

THE    PROPHET. 

There  is  no  God. 

[Terrible  is  the  wail  from  the  people,  from 
one  and  all  throughout  the  dense  con- 
course ;  but,  as  the  priests  stand  moveless, 
like  dumb  things  stricken  unto  the  death, 
the  multitude  cries  as  with  one  voice,  with 
arms  stretched  forth  even  as  one  arm :] 

THE   PEOPLE. 

We    have    endured   to   the    end !      We   are 
weary ;  we  are  weary :  O  God  ! 

THE   PROPHET. 

What  would  ye? 

THE   PEOPLE. 

Our  God  !     Our  God  ! 


126  Vistas. 

THE   PROPHET. 

There  is  no  God. 

[An  awful  whisper  goes  over  the  massed 
multitude :] 

THE   PEOPLE. 

Have  we  suffered,   endured,    agonized,  pas- 
sioned, hoped  against  hope,  and  all  in  vain  ? 

[And  till  the  Prophet  speaks,  a  yet  more 
awful  whisper  passes  like  a  shudder  over 
the  multitude :] 

THE   PROPHET. 

There  is  no  God  ! 

[Then  with  one  wild,  despairing  cry,  all  sup- 
plicate as  one  man  -.] 

THE  PEOPLE. 
Have  we  wrought  in  vain  ? 

THE   PROPHET. 

Yea,  so. 

THE   PEOPLE. 

And  is  there  no  God? 

PROPHET. 

There  is  no  God. 

[As  a  howl  of  a  wild  beast  is  the  voice  of  the 
multitude  :] 

THE   PEOPLE. 

Liar,  liar  !     O  false  Prophet,  was  it  ever  so  ? 

Did  we  worship  nought? 

[Then,  with  a  long  sigh,  as  if  death  had  come 
indeed,  the  Prophet  answers  :] 


The  Fallen  God.  127 

THE   PROPHET. 

Nay,  your  God  was. 

THE   PEOPLE. 

Where  is  he  ?     Let  us  come  unto  him  !     Our 
God  !     Our  God  ! 

THE   PROPHET. 

Behold,  he  is  here. 

THE   PEOPLE. 

Where?     Where? 

[And  lo,  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  the  dead 
Prophet,  whose  eyes  become  as  stone,  and 
whose  body  as  the  unhewn  marble  in  the 
heart  of  the  hills,  is  the  fallen  God. 

Then,  as  the  last  wave  of  a  perishing  sea,  all 
the  multitude  moves  onward.  One  by  one 
each  of  that  mighty  company  passes  before 
the  fallen  altar  and  looks  upon  the  dead 
God.  And  to  each  — kings  and  priests, 
elders  and  youths,  women  and  maidens, 
the  frail  and  little  children  — it  seems  as 
though  his  own  self  lies  there,  staring  up- 
ward out  of  his  own  eyes. 

But,  at  the  last,  none  is  left  of  all  these  count- 
less thousands.  Each  passes,  and  fades  as 
a  mist  against  the  black  wall  beyond. 

And  a  great  darkness  comes  down,  though  de- 
crescent along  the  forefront  is  a  dying  orb, 
the  faint,  vanishing  gleam  whereof  falls 
upon  the  stony  wilderness,  void  as  the  void 
sky.  No  voice  speaks;  no  breath  moves 
—  save  only  at  the  base  of  the  fallen  altar 
a  perishing  eddy  of  wind  that  stirs  a  hand- 
ful of  dust.] 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince. 


"  Amour  !     O  vie  !     O  reve  des  reves." 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince. 


[A  great  forest,  at  midwinter,  in  the  North  of 
France.      The    snow    lies    heavy    on    the 
boughs  of  the  oaks  and  beeches,  and  upon 
the  pendulous  branches  of  the  larches  and 
firs.      The  afternoon  sky  is  of  a  pale  tur- 
quoise blue,  faintly  dulled  toward  the  north 
into  a  vaporous  grey. 
In  the  depth  of  the  wood,  a  charcoal-burner 
is  stooping  over  a  pile  of  fagots  which  he 
is   binding.      Suddenly  he  raises  his  head 
and   listens   intently.     Far   off,  there  is   a 
faint    strain    of    music.      It    mounts    and 
wavers    and    passes    away,    as    a    feather 
blown  from  a  bird  in  its  flight  sways  this 
way  and  that  and  then  drifts  out  of  sight. 
The   charcoal-burner    resumes    his    labor ; 
but,  later,  he   once   more   suddenly  raises 
his  head  and  sniffs  the  chill  woodland  air.] 

THE    CHARCOAL-BURNER. 

It  is  strange.  Midwinter  .  .  .  and  there  is 
a  smell  as  of  violets  .  .  .  faint  .  .  .  like  those 
white  violets  in  summer  in  the  garden  of  the 
cure"  ...  or  {still  sniffing  the  air  perplexedly) 
like  those  in  the  woods  of  Belamor.  .  .  .  Well, 
well,  I  know  not.     I  have  seen  and  heard  many 


132  Vistas. 

things.  .  .  .  Ay,  and  so  the  Sieur  de  Fontnoir 
is  to  have  a  great  prince  for  his  guest,  they  say. 
I  would  he  might  pass  this  way,  for  I  am  poor 
—  ah,  so  poor,  and  it  is  bitter  cold  —  and 
perhaps  .  .  .  \again  he  listens  intently,  as  a 
faint  sound  of  music  floats  through  the  air  and 
lingeringly  dies']   ...  It  is  strange  ! 

[He  gathers  a  few  stray  fagots,  and  then, 
heavily  and  wearily,  follows  a  path  that 
leads  through  the  forest.  A  thin  snow 
begins  to  fall :  large  fringed  feathers  swirl 
softly  this  way  and  that,  dusking  the  upper 
air,  and  drawing  a  veil  of  fugitive  whiteness 
over  the  tangled  undergrowth.  Silently,  as 
the  visionary  thoughts  that  drift  through 
dreams,  the  snowflakes  fall,  till  the  upper 
boughs  of  the  firs  are  as  vast  white  plumes, 
and  a  dense  carpet  is  so  thickly  woven  over 
the  glades  that  the  hare  does  not  leap  from 
under  the  frozen  bracken,  and  under  the 
arched  roots  of  the  old  oak  the  yellow 
eyes  of  the  fox  blink  drowsily. 

At  the  northern  march  of  the  forest  there  is  a 
great  avenue  that  leads  to  the  Chateau  of 
Fontnoir;  and  at  the  far  end  of  this,  and 
close  to  the  manor,  Gaspard  the  Huntsman 
walks,  stamping  as  he  goes,  so  as  to  shake 
the  snow  from  him.  As  he  passes  the 
many-gabled  west  wing  of  Fontnoir,  he  is 
hailed  from  an  open  window  by  Raoul,  an 
old  servitor.] 

RAOUL. 

Gaspard  !    Gaspard  !  have  you  seen  or  heard 
aught  of  the  Prince  ? 

GASPARD. 

What  Prince  ? 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince.    133 

RAOUL. 

Why,  the  Prince  whom  both  our  Lord  and 
the  Lady  Alaine  have  been  expecting.  I  know 
no  more.  He  may  come  unannounced  and 
when  unexpected,  so  says  Father  Fabien. 

GASPARD. 

I  have  been  in  the  forest  all  day.  I  met  no 
one. 

RAOUL. 

You  saw  no  one  !     You  heard  nothing? 

GASPARD. 

I  saw  no  one  except  old  Pierre  the  charcoal- 
burner.  I  heard  nothing  unusual  —  except  — 
except  — 

RAOUL. 

Except  what? 

GASPARD. 

Within  the  last  hour  I  heard  twice  a  faint 
sound  as  of  music. 

RAOUL. 

Music  ? 

GASPARD. 

Yes ;  I  think  Sylvain,  from  St.  Luc  du  Lys, 
must  be  wandering  hither  again.  I  hope  so  : 
that  lute  of  his  has  magic  in  it,  and  he  has  a 
voice  as  sweet  as  the  spring  wind. 


134  Vistas. 


RAOUL. 


I  care  not  for  your  lute-players  and  singers. 
You  are  as  bad  as  Sylvain,  Gaspard.  ...  Is  it 
going  to  be  a  snowstorm? 

GASPARD. 

No.  This  fall  will  soon  cease.  The  night 
will  be  clear. 

[Raoul  closes  the  window,  and  Gaspard  passes 
on  and  disappears  into  the  east  wing.  A 
great  silence  prevails.  The  snowflakes  fall 
softly,  but  grow  thinner  and  more  thin,  and 
at  last  only  a  few  wandering  feathers  drift 
hither  and  thither. 

At  an  oriel  window  stand  Marcel  and  Alaine. 
The  room  beyond  is  in  deep  shadow.  To 
the  left,  a  door  opens  on  a  corridor :  to  the 
right  another,  leading  to  a  stone  staircase 
that  descends  abruptly.  The  first  is  closed ; 
the  second  is  ajar.  The  waning  afternoon 
light  falls  upon  Alaine's  face  as  the  dim 
glow  of  the  crescent  moon  on  water  lilies. 
She  is  very  beautiful,  but  pale  as  death. 
Marcel  is  clad  as  though  for  a  journey. 
He,  too,  is  pale ;  but  in  his  dark  eyes  there 
is  a  fierce  flame  of  life.] 

ALAINE. 

If  my  father  knew  that  you  were  here, 
Marcel  — 

MARCEL. 

Let  him  know.     I  care  not. 

ALAINE. 

He  hates  you  and  your  house. 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince.    135 

MARCEL. 

He  is  an  old  man,  who  has  lived  with 
Shadows. 

ALAINE. 

Father  Fabien  — 

MARCEL. 

Alaine,  what  flowers  have  you  there?  It  is 
midwinter  —  and  yet  I  seem  to  smell  the 
fragrance  of  violets. 

ALAINE. 

There  will  be  no  violets  for  months  yet. 
There  are  no  flowers  here. 

MARCEL. 

Yes  .  .  .  violets ;  .  .  .  those     faint,      white 

violets  you   love  so  well. 

[The  last  rays  of  the  sun  stream  through 
the  upper  boughs  of  the  forest,  and  all  the 
whiteness  is  as  autumnal  moonlight.  The 
gleam  illumes  the  face  of  Alaine,  which  is 
transformed  to  a  beauty  as  of  a  summer 
sea.  She  laughs  low,  and  in  a  sweet, 
hushed  voice  sings :] 

White  dreams, 
White  thoughts, 
White  hopes  ! 
Shy  violets. 
White  violets. 

In  woodland  ways,  by  the  brook-side, 
on  the  hill-slopes  / 


136  Vistas. 

Strange  joy, 
New  thrills, 
Vague  fears  : 
Violets, 
White  violets, 

White  kisses  from  the  lips  of  Spring, 
white  dewy  tears. 

White  hands, 
O  lead  me  where 
The  white  Spring  strays 
'Mid  violets, 
White  violets, 

On  the  hill-slopes,  by  the  brook-side, 
in  woodlayid  ways. 

[A  silence.     The  last  glow  of  the  sun  passes. 
A  yellow  light  illumes  the  wood.] 

MARCEL. 

Why  do  you  sing  that  song? 

ALAINE. 

\_Dreamily.~\     Because  they  are  the  flowers, 
the  best-beloved  flowers,  of  the  Prince.  .  .  . 

[softly] 

In  woodland  ways,   by  the   brook-side,  on   the 
hill-slopes  .' 

MARCEL. 

Alaine  ! 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince.    137 

ALAINE. 

Hush  !  Some  one  comes.  If  it  should  be 
my  father  —  or  —  or  —  Father  Fabien  ! 

MARCEL. 

It  cannot  be  your  father :  he  is  too  ill  to 
move.     It  is  Raoul :  I  know  his  heavy  step. 

[Raoul  knocks  and  opens  the  door.  He 
glances,  startled  for  a  moment,  at  Marcel ; 
then  bows.    Then,  looking  towards  Alaine  :] 

RAOUL. 

Did  you  wish  me? 

ALAINE. 

No.     Why  do  you  come  ? 

RAOUL. 

I  heard  a  sound  as  of  that  little  silver  chime 
of  bells  that  Sylvain  the  minstrel  brought  you 
last  Noel.     It  was  in  the  corridor. 

ALAINE. 

Impossible.     You  are  dreaming,  Raoul. 

RAOUL. 

\To  Marcel.~]  Monseigneur  de  St.  Michel, 
you  face  the  great  doorway  of  Fontnoir.  Did 
you  see  any  one  approach?  Have  you  stood 
here  long? 


138  Vistas. 


MARCEL. 


No  one  has  approached  since  the  sun  dipped 
among  the  firs. 

RAOUL. 

It  is  strange.  A  loud  peal  at  the  door  hap- 
pened just  as  I  was  crossing  the  west  gallery. 
I  answered  the  summons  at  once ;  but,  see  you, 
my  Lord  Marcel,  when  I  went  to  the  door  it 
was  open,  and  no  one  was  there. 

MARCEL. 

Some  one  must  have  opened  it. 

RAOUL. 

No  one  could  have  done  so  unseen  by  me. 
It  was  not  open  before  the  summons. 

MARCEL. 

Some  one  must  have  rung,  and  then  abruptly 
gone  elsewhere. 

RAOUL. 

I  looked  out  upon  the  court.  There  was 
not  the  faintest  impress  of  a  footstep  upon  the 
white  sheet  of  the  snow. 

MARCEL. 

Well,  it  has  been  an  illusion,  Raoul. 

[He  crosses  to  the  old  servitor,  whispers  some 
directions  in  his  ear,  and  then,  as  Raoul 
leaves  the  room,  closes  the  door  behind 
him.     The  yellow  light  over  the  snow-clad 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince.    139 

woods  grows  more  wan.  Beyond  are  broad 
spaces  of  amber,  and  then  a  vast  receding 
vault  of  dusky  grey,  wherein  three  pale 
stars  gleam  icily :  on  the  snow  in  the  fore- 
ground rests  a  furtive  green  light.] 

ALAINE. 
[Dreamily. ,]     Ah,  the  sweet  violets. 

MARCEL. 

You,  too,  smell  the  violets? 

ALAINE. 

[Still  as  in  a  dream.~]  And,  said  Sylvain  the 
poet,  when  the  Prince  had  made  a  wreath  of 
white  violets,  gathered  in  the  sunshine,  but 
each  with  the  moonshine  dew  still  cool  within 
it,  he  crowned  himself  therewith,  and  — 

MARCEL. 

Who  is  this  Prince  who  is  coming?  Why  is 
he  likely  to  come  alone  and  disguised? 

ALADJE. 

I  know  not. 

MARCEL. 

Alaine,  oh,  my  darling  !  I  love  you  !  Alaine  ! 
Alaine  ! 

ALAINE. 

Marcel ! 

[Marcel  sinks  on  his  knees  by  her  side,  and 
wildly  kisses  her  hand.] 


140  Vistas. 

MARCEL. 

Have  pity  upon  me,  have  pity,  Alaine  ! 

ALAINE. 

Rise,  Marcel. 

MARCEL. 

Alaine  !     Alaine  ! 

ALAINE. 

Rise,  heart  of  my  heart,  my  darling,  my 
darling  ! 

MARCEL. 

[Springing  to  his  feet,  and  holding  her  at 
ami's  length.~\  O  my  beautiful  Alaine  —  my 
joy  —  my  dream  !  Do  you  indeed  love  me 
even  as  1  love  you  ?  No  —  no  —  that  cannot 
be,  for  I  worship  you !  O  my  darling,  my 
darling  ! 

ALAINE. 

I  have  loved  you  always,  Marcel.  But  you 
know  my  father's  vow  —  my  father's  hatred  : 
he  would  kill  you  rather  than  — 

MARCEL. 

And  now  —  and  now? 

ALAINE. 

I  love  you,  and  you  only,  Marcel.  Do  with 
me  as  you  will.  I  am  a  lost  wave  without  you  — 
a  lost  wave  on  a  great  sea,  dark  and  shoreless. 


The  Coming  of  the  Prince.    141 

MARCEL. 

Then  farewell  all  this  long,  troubled  dream  ! 

ALAINE. 

Farewell  this   dream  that  is   dreamt  —  this 
weary  dream  ! 

MARCEL. 

And  you  will  come. 

ALAINE. 

I  come. 

[He  takes  her  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her 
passionately.  Then,  silent  and  soundlessly, 
they  pass  hand  in  hand  from  the  room  by 
the  eastward  door,  and  descend  the  narrow 
stairway. 

And  as  they  go,  the  room  is  full,  as  it  were, 
with  the  odor  of  white  violets.  And  ere 
they  have  reached  the  end  of  the  winding 
stairway,  they  stop  a  moment,  intently 
listening  to  a  faint,  sweet  music  as  of  lutes, 
that  seems  to  come  from  the  room  they 
have  left.] 

ALAINE. 

Ah,  the  sweet  music  ! 

MARCEL. 

I  have  heard  it  in  my  dreams. 

ALAINE. 

.  .  .  And  I. 

MARCEL. 

It  was  ever  with  thee,  Alaine  ! 


142  Vistas. 

ALAINE. 

.  .  .  And  thee  ! 

[They  pass  along  the  low  stone  corridor,  and 
out  behind  the  east  wing,  and  into  the 
court  where  Marcel's  sleigh  awaits  them. 
As  they  sweep  across  the  snow  and  into 
the  forest,  the  green  light  passes  into  yel- 
low, and  the  yellow  deepens  into  orange. 
And,  a  little  later,  sitting  by  the  fire  in  his 
hut,  the  charcoal-burner  lifts  his  head  and 
smiles  slowly ;  for  he  thinks  he  hears 
Sylvain  the  minstrel,  on  his  way  to  the 
Chateau  to  make  music  for  the  Prince.] 


The  Passing  of  Lilith. 


"  Connais-tu  la  Puissance  tenebreuse  qui  frame 
nos  destinees?  .  .  .  Des  vies  anterieures  sont  in- 
nombrablement  presentes  en  tnoi ;  et  je  suis  op- 
■presse  de  mes  pensees  futures:  je  sais  Feternite. 
Ne  suis-je  Fir  revocable  ?  " 


The  Passing  of  Lilith. 


[The  primal  Eden,  where  the  great  rivers  from 
the  East  and  the  West  converge ;  where  the 
winds  bear  abroad  the  rumor  of  the  music 
of  the  young  world,  strange  and  passing 
sweet ;  where  there  is  neither  strife  nor 
fear ;  where  Lilith,  the  beautiful,  soulless 
loveliness,  reigneth  supreme. 

And  in  the  serene  day  come  ever  and  again 
the  fairest  of  the  Sons  of  God  and  do  hom- 
age to  her;  but  only  to  Uluel  doth  she 
yield  herself.  And  in  the  serene  night 
cometh  the  Spirit  of  this  World,  ofttimes 
in  the  guise  of  a  beautiful  Snake,  and  unto 
him  Lilith  is  as  flame  to  flame.] 

THE   VOICE    OF    THE   SPIRIT   OF    THIS    WORLD. 

From  afar  I  sigh  for  thee,  O  Beauty  of  the 
World  ! 

LILITH. 

[Slowly  moving  through  the  Garden  of  Eden, 
where  the  duskfalleth.~\  I  would  be  alone  this 
night. 

THE    VOICE. 

\_As  the  passing  of  the  wind.']  Thy  thought 
is  my  thought,  and  thy  will  is  my  will. 

IO 


146  Vistas. 

[Through  the  dim  groves  and  shadowy  avenues 
of  Paradise  Lilith  goeth  slowly,  as  in  a 
dream.  She  seeth  not,  she  heedeth  not, 
the  beautiful  denizens  of  Eden :  the  white 
doe  that  moveth  beside  her  awhile,  like 
moonlight ;  the  yellow  panther,  whose  eyes 
are  as  emerald  flames  in  the  dusk ;  the 
green-gold  cobra,  languidly  undulating  from 
bough  to  bough  ;  the  filmy,  oft-evanishing 
creatures  of  the  middle  air,  strange  and 
lovely  shapes,  opal-eyed,  faintly  rainbow- 
hued;  and  wandering  Spirits,  passing  fair, 
flowers  of  the  unborn  fruit  of  the  Human 
Soul. 

And  after  awhile  she  passeth,  still  as  in  a 
dream,  by  the  margins  of  the  great,  un- 
sailed  waste  of  waters  that  stretcheth  west- 
ward from  Paradise,  vaguely  hearkening, 
as  she  goeth,  the  prophetic  murmurs  of 
the  deep. 

But  the  sound  of  the  waters  persuadeth  her  to 
a  subtle  sorrow,  and  she  wandereth  inland 
till  she  cometh  to  the  great  central  fountain 
which  riseth  from  the  womb  of  the  earth. 
And  looking  into  the  heart  of  it,  Lilith  is 
strangely  troubled.] 

LILITH. 

\Slowly,  mid  still  as  in  a  dream.~]  Lo,  in 
the  falling  spray  it  seemeth  that  something 
shadowy  like  unto  myself  taketh  form.  Be- 
hold, now  it  towereth  triumphantly.  .  .  .  Now 
it  is  a  menacing  suppliant,  writhing  with  strange 
agonies.  .  .  .  Now  it  standeth  passive,  in  sin- 
ister silence  !  And  now  it  goeth  —  it  passeth 
—  is  no  more.  Yet,  see,  in  the  heart  of  the 
spray  it  cometh  again  ! 

[Then,  as  though  aweary  of  the  vision,  Lilith 
turneth  away,  and,  going  through  the  col- 
onnades of  the  forest,  cometh  to  the  great 


The   Passing  of  Lilith.        147 

hill  that  is  in  the  midst  of  Eden.  And 
having  gained  the  summit  of  the  hill,  she 
looketh  long  toward  the  North  and  toward 
the  East,  where  the  volcanic  mountains  are 
as  a  girdle  of  flame  and  falling  ashes. 
And  a  strange  trouble  cometh  upon  her,  and 
she  averteth  her  gaze,  and  descendeth  the 
great  hill  that  is  in  the  midst  of  Eden,  and 
passeth  again  into  the  forest;  though  she 
goeth  not  by  the  fountain,  but  by  the  starlit 
ways  where  the  night-flowers  exhale  exqui- 
site odors  that  are  as  dreams.] 

THE   VOICE    OF   THE   SPIRIT   OF   THIS   WORLD. 

From  afar  I  sigh  for  thee,  O  Beauty  of  the 
World  ! 

LILITH. 

[Moving  her  lips.~]  I  would  be  alone  this 
night. 

THE   VOICE. 

\_As  the  passing  of  the  wind.~]      Even  as  thy 

thought  is  my  thought,  so  is  thy  will  my  will. 

[As  the  coming  of  moonlight  through  the  dusk 
is  the  voice  —  as  from  afar  off — of  Uluel, 
the  fairest  of  the  Sons  of  God.  .  .  .] 

THE   VOICE    OF   ULUEL. 

Thou  art  as  white  fire  in  my  heart,  O  Beauty 
of  the  World  ! 

LILITH. 

[Alow  and  at  rest,  upon  a  slope  of  white 
violets,  lying  as  surf  round  the  cavernous  bases 
of  vast  trees, ,]    For  I  am  with  thee  as  a  Dream  ! 

But  come  not,  for  I  — 

[A  wind  ariseth,  and  passeth.] 


148 


Vistas. 


THE   VOICE   OF   ULUEL. 

But  lo  !  the  time  is  at  hand  when  — 

[A  wind  cometh  and  goeth,  and  the  voice  is 
borne  away.  And  there  is  utter  silence  in 
Eden.     And  Lilith  sleepeth. 

Hour  by  hour  the  dark  blue  veil  of  night  is 
withdrawn,  and  star  after  star  is  left  pale 
and  evanescent.  And  when  none  is  left  to 
front  the  rose-light  of  the  new  day,  save 
the  white  fire  of  Phosphor,  that  is  the 
lamp  of  morning;  and  when  a  rapturous 
glow  hath  bourgeoned  like  a  flower  over 
the  Garden  of  Eden ;  and  when  a  Breath  of 
Joy  gladdeneth  the  world;  Lilith  awaketh. 
Then  having  listened  awhile  to  the  song 
of  life,  and  drunken  of  the  dew  that  lies 
in  the  chalices  of  the  white  flowers,  and 
eaten  of  the  golden  manna  that  awaiteth 
her  where  she  will,  she  smileth,  and  with  a 
wild,  sweet  song,  passeth  like  a  dream  of 
sunlight  through  the  glades  of  Eden.  And 
ever  as  she  goeth,  shadowy  and  beautiful 
forms  like  unto  the  souls  of  men  follow 
after  her :  and  as  she  passeth  beneath  the 
trees,  she  ofttimes  plucketh  the  fruit  thereof, 
and,  kissing  it,  giveth  of  the  fruit  now  unto 
this  one  and  now  unto  that.] 

LILITH. 

[Standing  still,   and  as  though  listening  in- 
tently.']    And  if  it  so  be — 

FAINT     VOICES      FROM     THE     BEAUTIFUL    SHADOWY 

FORMS. 

Give  us  of  the  fruit  !     Give  us  of  the  fruit ! 

LILITH. 

[  Throwing  away  the  last  fruit  she  plucktJ] 
In  the  youth  of  the  world  I  dreamt  — 


The  Passing  of  Lilith.        149 

FAINT   VOICES. 

Give  us  of  the  fruit !     Give  us  of  the  fruit ! 

LILITH. 

[Sombrely.~\      And   the   Voice   that    I   have 
heard  thrice,  and  know  not  — 

FAINT   VOICES. 

Give  us  of  the  fruit  !     Give  us  of  the  fruit  ! 
Oh,  give  us  of  the  fruit. 

LILITH. 

\_L00king   upon    one    of  the   Shadow-souls.~\ 
What  would'st  thou? 

THE    SHADOW-SOUL. 

The  fruit ! 

LILITH. 

Thou  art  a  dream  that  is  undreamt. 

THE   SHADOW-SOUL. 

The  fruit  —  oh,  give  us  of  the  fruit. 

[Slowly  Lilith  plucketh  a  fruit  from  off  the  tree, 
and,  kissing  it,  giveth  it  to  the  suppliant.] 

THE    SHADOW-SOUL. 

Ah,  joy  !    joy  !     I  am  the    Breath  of  Life  ! 

Immortal  Life  —  Immortal  Joy  ! 

[As  the  Shadow-Soul  eateth  of  the  fruit,  it 
becometh  like  a  rosy  phantom,  with  eyes 
as  if  filled  with  sunshine,  and  with  a  face 
like  unto  a  sunlit  sea.j 


150  Vistas. 


THE   SHADOW-SOUL. 

\_Moving  apai-t  from  its  fellows. ~\     Farewell! 

Farewell !     For  I  am :  and  ye  are  as  dreams 

that  are  undreamed. 

[And  as  he  goeth,  the  wild  birds  of  Eden  hover 
above  him,  and  under  his  feet  red  and  white 
flowers  spring,  and  a  low  music  followeth 
his  steps.] 

LILITH. 

[As  in  a  dream.']  Farewell  !  Farewell  !  For 
I  am :  and  ye  are  as  dreams  that  are  un- 
dreamed. 

[But  after  the  Shadow-Soul  hath  eaten  of  the 
fruit,  the  low  music  changeth  into  a  mourn- 
ful sighing,  and  the  birds  become  like  unto 
bats,  and  small,  writhing  snakes  move  where 
erst  were  the  red  and  white  flowers.  Then 
the  rosy  phantom  fadeth  into  greyness,  and 
is  no  more.  And  nought  of  the  Shadow- 
Soul  remaineth,  save  one  drop  of  blood 
which  is  like  unto  a  bleeding  heart,  but 
speedily  sinketh  into  the  ground.  And 
Lilith  knoweth  that  before  she  pass  that 
way  again  it  will  be  a  plant,  and  thereafter 
a  tree,  whereon  will  grow  the  mystic  fruit 
wherewith  unto  these  her  worshippers  she 
giveth  life  and  death.] 

LILITH. 

[Slowly   reiterating.]     Farewell  !     Farewell ! 

For  I  am :     and    ye  are   as    dreams    that    are 

undreamed. 

[Slowly  Lilith,  passing  from  the  trees  of  the 
fruit,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  dismisseth 
all  those  that  follow  her  with  the  hunger 
that  is  more  than  bodily  hunger,  and  the 
thirst  that  is  more  than  bodily  thirst. 


The  Passing  of  Lilith.        151 

Like  a  dream  of  the  sunlight,  she  goeth 
through  the  aisles  of  the  forest.  The 
glory  of  the  morning  falling  upon  her 
maketh  her  long  hair  as  beaten  gold  —  as 
pale  gold  that  is  aflame  with  an  inner  con- 
suming fire.  Her  white  body  is  as  the 
ivory-white  lily  that  groweth  in  solitary 
beauty  in  the  heart  of  Eden :  and  the 
going  of  her  is  as  the  wave  that  moveth 
before  the  wind  upon  the  deep :  and  the 
light  that  is  in  her  eyes  of  fathomless  blue 
is  as  that  of  the  azure  heaven  an  hour 
before  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

And  as  she  goeth,  she  seeth  down  the  vast 
vista  of  Eden  the  beautiful  Uluel,  the  fair- 
est of  the  Sons  of  God.  With  him  are 
three  others,  each  lovely  as  daybreak. 
But  Uluel  is  as  the  splendor  of  day.  And 
as  they  come  nearer,  the  three  vanish  into 
the  golden  glow,  and  Uluel  is  alone.  Then 
as  a  moving  river  of  light  he  draweth  near 
unto  Lilith,  and  she  seeth  that  the  glory  of 
his  loveliness  passeth  knowledge.  Hand 
in  hand,  they  go  forth  together;  and  the 
innermost  flower  of  flowers  rejoiceth,  and 
each  blade  of  grass  bendeth  as  with  a 
wind.  And  throughout  Eden  there  is  a 
sound  as  of  the  laughter  of  life. 

And  while  the  moon  prevaileth,  Uluel,  the 
fairest  of  the  Sons  of  God,  and  Lilith  lie 
among  the  lilies  of  the  valley,  where  the 
spray  of  the  fountain  cools  the  air,  and 
the  shadows  are  deep  from  the  great 
boughs  of  ancient  trees.  The  joy  that  is 
their  joy  passeth  knowledge,  for  Mortality 
is  swallowed  up  in  Immortality,  as  the 
stars  that  perish  lie  in  the  heart  of  the 
firmament.  And  Uluel,  the  Son  of  God, 
trembleth  because  of  the  unspeakable  sin, 
and  anon  trembleth  with  the  greatness  of 
unspeakable  joy.     And  Lilith  dreanuth. 

When  the  day  waneth  in  its  glory,  and  the 
night,  clothed  with  magnificence,  is  at 
hand,  Uluel  riseth  ] 


152  Vistas. 


ULUEL. 

Lilith,  Heart  of  Beauty,  wilt  thou  come  ? 

LILITH. 

I  perish  yonder. 

ULUEL. 

Thou  canst  not  die.     Thou  art  immortal. 

LILITH. 

I   dreamed  that  I    should  die  daily,  and  a 
thousand  deaths. 

ULUEL. 

Love  scorneth  fear. 

LILITH. 

Fear  warneth  love. 

ULUEL. 

Come  ! 

LILITH. 

Show  me  the  portals  of  thy  golden  house. 

ULUEL. 

[Troubled.']     What  would'st  thou? 

LILITH. 

Thee! 

ULUEL. 

I  must  go  hence.     Already  — 


The  Passing  of  Lilith.        153 

[A  wind  riseth,  and  passeth  ;  and  Lilith,  lying 
upon  the  lilies  alone,  dreameth  hour  after 
hour.  Slowly  the  day  goeth  through  the 
gold  and  purple  gates  of  the  West :  and 
the  eve,  with  a  crown  of  stars,  cometh 
through  the  violet  shadows.  Through 
velvety  glooms  of  darkness  the  night  fall- 
eth,  and  the  later  splendor  of  the  moon 
doth  not  dim  the  glory  of  the  stars.] 

THE   VOICE   OF   THE   SPIRIT   OF   THIS   WORLD. 

From  afar  I  sigh  for  thee,  O  Beauty  of  the 
World  ! 

LILITH. 

[  With  outstretched  arms.~\  Come  unto  me, 
O  Flame  of  Love  ! 

[Out  of  the  dusk  cometh  a  great  Snake,  of  a 
beauty  beyond  words,  and  girt  with  a  splen- 
dor like  unto  the  wavelets  of  the  sea  when 
the  moonlight  lies  upon  the  deep. 

As  he  moveth,  there  is  a  sound  as  of  a  multi- 
tude of  sweet  lutes ;  as  he  breatheth,  there 
is  an  echo  of  a  myriad  delicate  strains. 
His  voice  is  as  the  voice  of  the  woods  at 
sunrise,  of  the  pastures  when  the  day  is 
done,  of  the  West  wind  in  valleys  near  the 
sea,  of  the  rain  after  long  drought.  And 
Lilith  giveth  a  low  cry,  and  he  passeth  unto 
her. 

And  far  away  beyond  the  abysmal  disc  of  the 
sun,  Uluel  singeth  before  God:  and  know- 
eth  not  that  he  is  blind,  and  that  God 
seeth,  and  waiteth.] 

LILITH. 

[  Whispering  to  the  beautiful  Snake  coiled 
about  her,  as  the  ivy  is  at  one  with  the  tree  it 
claspeth.~\     Yet  if  dreams  — 


154  Vistas. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    THIS   WORLD. 

Thou  thyself  art  the  Dream  of  the  World. 

[The  moonlight  spreadeth  as  a  flood,  and  the 
great  beasts  of  Eden  meet  and  rejoice  with 
one  another. 

And  Lilith  and  the  Spirit  of  the  World  are 
at  one,  as  two  rivers  that  flow  into  one 
sea.  The  mystery  and  the  wonder  and 
the  secret  ecstasy  of  night  enter  into 
them,  and  they  know  the  unspeakable  fear 
and  the  unspeakable  joy. 

But  toward  the  noon  of  night  a  strange,  wild 
chant,  surpassing  sweet,  draweth  near. 
Then,  with  a  low  sigh,  the  Snake  uncoil- 
eth  from  the  body  of  Lilith  and  passeth 
into  the  darkness,  like  unto  the  going  of  a 
moonlit  river.  Awhile  doth  Lilith  list  to 
the  roaring  of  the  wild  beasts  of  Eden,  and 
rejoice  in  their  joy :  but  as  the  strange 
singing  cometh  nearer  she  riseth  in  her 
place,  and  waiteth  as  one  who  watcheth 
for  her  beloved. 

Erelong  issueth  out  of  the  green  gloom  a  white 
company  of  beautiful  beings,  lovelier  than 
aught  else  in  Eden.  Yet  none  knoweth 
their  song  save  Lilith,  for  of  all  that  pass 
by  she  is  the  mother. 

And  some  are  the  offspring  of  her  commerce 
with  Uluel,  the  fairest  of  the  Sons  of  God  : 
and  some  are  born  of  her  dalliance  with  the 
beautiful  Earth-Spirit,  that  is  the  Snake. 

One  by  one  she  calleth  unto  them :  unto  the 
children  of  Uluel  —  Hopes,  Aspirations, 
Fair  Beliefs,  Virtues,  Glories,  Joys,  and 
Raptures:  and  unto  the  children  of  the 
Earth-Spirit,  equally  fair  to  look  upon  — 
Desires,  Lusts,  Agonies,  Passions,  Tempta- 
tions, Sins,  Shames,  Sorrows,  and  Despairs. 

But  they,  her  offspring,  will  not  abide ;  singing 
their  mystic  chant,  one  and  all  pass  by. 
And  when  the  white  procession  is  no  more, 
Lilith  sinketh  again  upon  the  ground,  and, 


The   Passing  of  Lilith.        155 

sleeping,  dreameth  a  dream.  And  in  her 
dream  she  seeth  how  all  these  offspring  of 
her  joys  journey  unto  a  strange  goal :  and 
how  the  children  of  the  Snake,  who  are 
as  males,  terribly  woo  the  children  of  the 
Son  of  God,  who  are  as  beautiful  female 
spirits. 
But,  in  the  midst  of  her  dream,  she  awaketh 
trembling,  for  a  Voice  prevaileth  through 
the  Gates  of  Death  and  Sleep. 

THE    VOICE. 

Arise,  thou  that  art  Lilith  ! 

LILITH. 

[Trembling.]    It  is  He  ! 

THE    VOICE. 

Arise,  Lilith,  Spirit  of  the   Flesh,  and  go  up 

upon  the  mountain. 

[Thereat  Lilith,  rising  from  her  place,  passeth 
through  the  wood  to  the  great  hill  that  is 
in  the  midst  of  Eden.  And  in  her  heart 
there  is  the  weight  of  the  old-world  dreams. 
As  she  climbeth  the  great  hill  by  the  light 
of  the  flaming  volcanoes,  her  face  is  pale 
as  the  light  on  a  moonless  sea.  And  when 
she  looketh  forth  from  the  summit  upon  the 
girdle  of  mountains,  belching  forever  their 
spume  of  red  flames  and  clouds  of  molten 
ashes,  her  heart  faileth  her  for  terror.  For 
all  the  heavens — from  the  verge  of  the 
world  to  the  farthest  of  the  stars  —  are 
alive  with  thin  spectral  flames :  the  vital 
essences,  as  Lilith  knoweth,  of  those  in- 
numerable worshippers  of  hers  who  through 
past  ages  have  eaten  of  her  mystic  fruit. 
Moreover,  each  supplicateth  wildly  to  the 
unknown  God.  .  .  .] 


i56 


Vistas. 


Give  us  life,  that  we  triumph  over  this  beau- 
tiful Evil,  which  hath  no  soul,  but  who  is  yet 
immortal ! 

[And,  much  troubled,  Lilith  descendeth  the 
great  hill  that  is  in  the  midst  of  Eden. 
And  at  the  fountain  which  welleth  from 
the  womb  of  the  earth,  and  at  the  phan- 
tasm of  herself  in  the  spray  thereof,  she 
looketh  long  and  broodingly.  Thereafter, 
with  lips  muttering,  but  without  words, 
and  with  downcast  eyes,  she  passeth  on- 
ward toward  the  margin  of  the  great  sea 
that  covereth  all  the  world  to  the  West. 

There  until  the  dawn  lieth  she,  silent,  motion- 
less, as  one  dead.  And  at  the  outburst  of 
the  glory  of  the  rising  sun,  there  cometh  a 
terrible  voice  out  of  the  hollow  heaven :] 

THE  VOICE. 

Behold,  man  shall  be  born  upon  the  earth. 
He  shall  inherit  it.  Unto  the  children  of  man 
is  delivered  thine  inheritance.  Hence  pass 
thou,  Lilith,  even  unto  the  great  sea  —  thou  and 
thine. 

LILITH. 

\Slowly  rising.']  Even  so.  For  my  time  is 
come  upon  me. 

[Then  knowing  that  her  time  is  come  upon 
her,  and  that  all  things  must  be  fulfilled, 
she  goeth  forward,  silent,  and  trembling 
not,  but  with  downcast  eyes,  and  lieth  by 
the  uttermost  margin  of  the  great  sea.  All 
clay  long  she  abideth  there  ;  nor  weepeth, 
nor  maketh  any  wail  of  sorrow;  but  lieth 
ever  with  her  breast  against  the  sand,  and 
with  fixed  eyes  staring  upon  the  sea. 

And  none  cometh  nigh  her:  neither  Uluel, 
the  fairest  of  the  Sons  of  God  ;  nor  the  fair 


The  Passing  of  Lilith.        157 

Snake,  which  is  the  Spirit  of  this  World; 
nor  any  of  her  beautiful  offspring;  nor  any 
of  her  shadow-worshippers,  that  are  as  the 
grains  of  sand  in  number;  nor  any  fond 
beast  or  sheltering  bird. 
And  at  the  noon  of  day,  Lilith  crieth  aloud 
once :] 

Uluel ! 

[And  at  the  waning  of  the  day,  Lilith  cries 
aloud  yet  again :] 

Uluel ! 

[Slowly  the  fan-flame  of  the  sun  waneth  above 
the  great  sea,  and  there  is  deep  peace  in 
Eden. 

But  ere  the  passing  of  the  sun,  and  when  all 
the  ocean  is  red  as  with  blood,  the  company 
of  the  offspring  of  Lilith  by  the  Son  of 
God  and  by  the  Spirit  of  the  Earth  come 
unto  her  out  of  Eden  :  Hopes  and  Despairs, 
Virtues  and  Sins,  Glories  and  Shames,  Rap- 
tures and  Agonies,  one  and  all  come  they 
unto  her,  their  mother.] 

„       THE   CHILDREN    OF   LILITH. 

\Slowly  chanting.']     We  are  immortal,   and 

we  cannot  die  ! 

[There  is  no  following  sound,  no  answer,  but 
the  moaning  of  the  sea.] 

THE    CHILDREN    OF    LILITH. 

[  With  alien  voices,  passing  away.~]     We  are 

immortal,  and  we  cannot  die  ! 

[But  Lilith,  who  hath  stirred  not  for  all  their 
advent,  only  smileth  constrainedly,  and  turn- 
eth  not  her  staring  eyes  from  off  the  deep. 
And  the  faint  voices  of  the  children  of 
Lilith  are  lost  in  the  moaning  voice  of  the 
waters.] 


i58 


Vistas. 


LILITH. 

Beautiful  Spirit,  I  am  thine. 

[But  only  the  night  cometh.  And  the  sea 
moveth  as  though  quickened  into  life,  and 
advanceth  upon  the  land.  When  the  moon 
riseth,  there  is  nought  upon  the  shore  save 
a  little  frothing  foam.  In  the  silence  of 
the  night  strange  cries  vibrate,  and  shad- 
ows innumerable  pass  to  and  fro,  in  the 
valleys  of  Eden. 

And  at  sunrise  God  breatheth  upon  the  dust, 
and  Adam  is.] 


(1886  and  1893.) 


The  Lute-Player. 


Les fibres  de  son  ccenr  font  les  cordes  d^un 

luth 
Qui  rhythme  les  accords  des  splendeurs 

eternelles.  .  .  . 

Israfel. 


The  Lute-Player. 


[In  a  long,  high-vaulted  room,  looking  out 
upon  a  Roman  garden  where  the  cypresses 
rise  in  narrowing  shafts  from  thickets  of 
oleander  and  myrtle,  is  seated  a  company 
of  men  and  women,  feasting.  Touched 
with  the  coolness  of  the  eve  that  has 
scarce  come  .  .  .  though  the  last  floating 
cloudlets  of  crimson  and  pink,  like  petals 
fallen  from  a  late-gathered  rose,  still  linger 
beyond  the  garden-fringe  of  ilex  and  pine 
.  .  .  the  soft,  warm  air  of  early  summer 
steals  into  the  room,  laden  with  subtle 
odors,  and  reverberant  as  a  hollow  shell 
with  vague  sounds — the  hum  of  the  bees 
in  the  mignonette,  of  the  gnats  upon  the 
wing,  of  the  dragon-flies  as  they  dart  to 
and  fro  above  the  sunken  fish-ponds. 

At  the  head  of  the  table,  facing  the  open 
window,  sits  a  Cardinal ;  beyond  him  on  either 
side  are  men  and  women,  for  the  most  part 
young.  The  dancing-girls  have  just  gone,  and 
a  sudden  hush  has  come  out  of  the  twilight  up- 
on all  assembled.  A  few  look  before  them 
pensively,  or  idle  with  the  rose  leaves  in  the 
water  in  the  crystal  globes  beside  them ;  but 
most  look  towards  the  garden,  where  the 
shadows  are  fantastically  long  or  merged  in  a 
violet  gloom. 

ii 


1 62  Vistas. 

The  light  in  the  west  has  become  gold  and 
purple,  with  a  wide  stretch  of  pale,  translucent 
green,  against  which  the  cypresses  stand  black 
and  moveless  :  over  all  the  sky  is  one  vast  wave 
of  daffodil.  Out  of  the  heart  of  a  myrtle- 
thicket  comes  the  song  of  a  nightingale,  so 
thrilling  with  exultant  passion  that  no  one  dares 
speak  or  move  lest  the  charm  be  no  more. 

When,  abruptly,  the  song  ceases,  there  is 
still  silence  throughout  the  room.  But  sud- 
denly a  low,  penetrating  strain  of  music  floats 
in  upon  the  evening  air,  so  poignant  and  yet 
so  delicate,  so  rare  and  yet  with  touches  of 
such  sweet  familiarity,  that  tears  come  into  the 
eyes  of  many.  Yet  none  knoweth  who  the 
musician  is  :  and  if  some  think  that  the  subtle 
playing  comes  from  the  garden,  others  believe 
that  the  Cardinal  has  secreted  a  lute-player 
somewhere  in  the  room,  or  behind  the  tapes- 
tries or  waving  curtains.  And  to  some  comes 
a  sudden  sense  of  peace,  to  others  a  quick 
joy.  But  one  youth,  turning  to  the  fair  woman 
beside  him,  is  startled  to  see  that  her  eyes  look 
towards  him  as  through  a  veil,  and  that  her 
beauty  shines  upon  him  afar  off,  as  in  a  pool 
the  fugitive  light  briefly  lingers  while  the  moon 
rests  on  the  mountain  shoulder.  With  a  strange 
dread  at  his  heart  he  is  about  to  lean  forward, 
when  he  shrinks  in  terror,  for  between  him  and 
her  yawns  a  black  and  bottomless  gulf. 

As  a  ripple  of  laughter  and  the  sound  of  the 
wind  among  the  grasses,  goes  the  eager  applause 


The  Lute-Player.  163 

of  those  sitting  at  the  feast ;  and,  low  and  clear 
above  all,  the  voice  of  the  Cardinal,  bidding  the 
musician  enter  and  be  one  of  his  company. 
But  the  youth  shudders,  for  now  he  hears,  as  it 
were,  the  echo  of  the  music  floating  up  from  the 
hollow  blackness  of  the  gulf.  Then,  with  a  fear 
such  as  he  has  never  known  before,  he  rises, 
and  reaches  forward  to  gather  to  his  arms  the 
woman  whom  he  loves ;  but,  even  while  he  still 
hears  the  blithe  voices  of  the  guests,  he  knows 
that  he  is  sinking  like  a  falling  feather  into  the 
gulf.  From  far  beneath  he  hears  the  strange 
music  of  the  Lute-player  :  far  above,  the  faint 
echo  of  it  among  the  revellers,  of  whom  he  was 
one  but  a  moment  ago.  As  a  swimmer  sinks 
down  into  a  fathomless  sea,  so  sinks  he  :  and 
in  the  waning  gleam  overhead,  as  of  vanish- 
ing moonlight,  he  sees  the  pale,  mourning  face 
of  her  whom  he  loves. 

With  a  light  laugh,  the  Cardinal  calls  :  — 

"  Ah  !  there  goes  the  Lute-player  :  I  saw  his 
shadow  fall  upon  the  floor  near  the  window." 

And  a  guest  cries  :  — 

"  And  the  nightingale  has  heard  him  too  !  " 

Whereat  there  is  again  a  profound  stillness ; 
for  all  sit  entranced  by  the  song  of  the  unseen 
bird,  which  is  now  sad  beyond  words,  and  as 
though  the  little  heart  were  breaking.  The 
silence  following  is  full  of  the  afterthought  of 
sweet  music,  as  a  calm  sea  is  full  of  the  moon- 
light long  after  a  cloud-film  veils  the  hollow  sky. 
But  suddenly,  from  the  dusky  avenues  at  the 


164  Vistas. 

far  end  of  the  garden,  the  vanishing  lilt  of  a 
lute  falls  upon  the  ears  of  all.  So  sweet  and 
blithe  its  music,  that  each  smiles  as  with  sudden 
gladness  and  relief:  none  knowing  what  silence 
has  suddenly  come  unto  one  of  them,  what  hor- 
ror of  deep  darkness,  what  engulfing  despair. 

[And  the  Lute-player,  passing  unseen  down  the 
dark  ways,  fares  toward  the  city :  where 
the  noise  of  falling  waters  is  sweet  to  tired 
ears,  and  the  hot  air  cooled  with  blown 
spray.] 

As  he  silently  goes  on  his  way,  none  knows 
of  his  presence.  But  as  he  passes  by  a  house 
in  an  obscure  street,  he  hears  a  long,  wail- 
ing cry  :  whereat  he  stands  still,  and  listens  in- 
tently ere,  unseen,  he  enters  and  goes  towards 
a  room  where,  by  the  bed  of  a  child,  a  mother 
kneels,  sobbing  and  crying  to  God.  In  the 
shadow,  unseen  and  unheard,  he  looks  long  at 
the  woman  and  at  the  child.  Then,  slowly  and 
softly,  he  begins  to  play ;  and  the  room  is  full 
of  the  delicate  music  of  his  lute,  and  upon  the 
face  of  the  child  is  an  exceeding  joy.  And  the 
child,  with  thin  arms  suddenly  outstretched, 
cries  eagerly :  — 

"  Mother  !  mother  !  I  see  a  beautiful  stream, 
all  gold  in  the  sunshine  ;  and  beyond  it  is  a 
meadow  full  of  flowers  ;  and  everywhere,  every- 
where, oh,  the  sweet  songs  !  Oh,  mother ! 
mother  !  the  music,  the  sweet  music  !  " 

And  the  mother  pitifully  cries  out :  — 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  little  one  :  it  is  but  a  lute- 
player  in  the  street." 


The  Lute-Player.  165 

But  as  she  would  reach  to  her  child,  she 
hearkens  as  it  were  the  lute-music,  floating  far 
away  above  a  mad  rush  and  surge  of  waters : 
and  among  the  screams  of  drowning  wretches 
she  hears  a  cry  that  goes  to  her  heart,  and  at 
the  same  moment  sees  her  child  whirled  on 
high  and  hurled  through  the  swirling  foam  into 
the  darkness  beyond.  Then,  with  a  wild  cry, 
she  falls  forward  unconscious. 

[In  the  stillness  and  in  the  shadow,  the  Lute- 
player  goes  forth  into  the  street.  And 
passing  hence  into  a  lonely  and  evil  quar- 
ter, he  plays  upon  his  lute,  but  so  softly 
that  none  hears  him.  It  is  as  though  the 
blossoms  on  the  fruit-trees  were  whisper- 
ing to  the  leaves,  as  though  the  moon- 
beams were  dancing  with  the  ripples  on  a 
stream,  as  though  the  wandering  white 
rays  of  the  stars  were  tangled  in  the  long 
grasses  and  made  a  sweet,  bewildering 
music. 

Thereafter,  passing  by  foul  places  and  dens 
of  loathsome  evil,  the  low,  haunting  strain 
wanders,  wanders,  drifting  this  way  and 
that,  as  though  innumerable  winged  spirits 
were  floating  earthward  with  the  falling 
dew,  singing  their  thin  aerial  song,  sur- 
passing sweet.  Some  hear  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, fleetingly  faint,  behind  a  curtain,  or 
in  a  dark  passage,  or  betwixt  the  sudden 
opening  and  closing  of  a  door.  Sometimes 
it  is  a  vanishing  echo,  sweet  and  joyous 
as  of  the  dawn-wind  stirring  among  the 
upper  branches  of  the  forest,  as  the  rip- 
pling wash  of  the  sea  when  the  sunglow 
streams  upon  it :  sometimes  it  is  vague 
and  far  as  the  fall  of  snow  upon  the  wood- 
lands when  there  is  no  wind,  as  the  whisper 
of  the  last  breath  of  air  swooning  upon  the 
pastures,  as  the  faint  falling  music  of  the 
wild   hyacinths  and  lilies  of  the  valley  in 


1 66  Vistas. 

the  hollow  beyond  the  blown  spray  of  the 
waterfall.] 

And  passing  down  a  narrow  street,  the  Lute- 
player  comes  upon  a  man  going  cautiously  in 
the  shadow :  who,  fearful  of  following  steps, 
turns,  muttering  hoarsely : 

"Who  art  thou?" 

But  hearing  from  the  Lute-player  that  he  is 
only  a  wandering  musician  faring  waywardly 
through  the  city,  the  man  cries  blithely :  — 

"What  do  you  sing?  For  I  know  where  a 
good  song  will  be  welcome  ! " 

Whereupon  the  Lute-player  answers  simply  : 

"I  sing  of  Life  .  .  .  and  Death." 

With  a  challenging  voice  the  man  says :  — 

"  Come,  a  song  for  a  song  !  " 

And  he  begins  a  carol  of  life  and  the  many 
joys  thereof,  and  mocking  at  death  :  — 

O  Day  come  unto  me, 
Fair  and  so  sweet ! 
Crowrtd  shalt  thou  be, 

And  with  wing' 'd feet, 
Escape  the  invading  sea, 
Whose  bitter  line 

Follows  o'er  fleet. 
What  joy  thou  would1  st  is  thine  : 
Life  is  divine, 

O  Fair  and  Sweet! 

Death  is  a  paltry  thought: 

A  little  troublous  thing  — 

An  insect ' s  sting  .' 
Beautiful  Day,  oh,  heed  it  not ! 
Death  is  a  vain,  a  — 


The  Lute-Player.  167 

But  he  ceases  abruptly  as  the  Lute -player 
suddenly  touches  his  lute  :  and  so  passing  rare 
is  the  music  that  the  man  stands  entranced. 
Nor  does  he  speak  any  word  or  make  any 
gesture,  as  he  hears  it  lessening  and  vanishing. 

[In  the  deep  shadow  of  the  street  the  Lute- 
player  is  seen  no  more,  and  the  thrilling, 
evanishing  strain  passes  away  at  last,  sweet 
as  faint  inland  echoes  heard  longingly 
through  the  dusk  at  sea.] 

With  a  low  sigh  the  man  turns,  but  suddenly 
reels  with  horror  to  see  that  he  is  in  a  city  of 
flame,  and  that  the  street  before  him  is  a  broad 
and  fathomless  river  of  blood.  As,  with  a  ter- 
rible cry,  he  falls  therein,  he  does  not  see  the 
figure  of  his  enemy  behind  him,  nor  feel  the 
long  knife  of  the  assassin  that  transfixes  his 
heart. 

[And  the  Lute-player,  traversing  the  city, 
crosses  one  of  the  bridges  that  span  the 
immemorial  river  whereon  it  is  set.  Halt- 
ing midway,  he  looks  broodingly  upon  the 
slow-moving  flood  whose  gurgling  current 
washes  the  piers  beneath  him.  Once,  smil- 
ing darkly,  he  raises  his  hand,  about  to 
play  a  music  so  wild  and  strange  that  the 
whole  city  should  hearken  :  but,  with  a  sigh, 
he  forbears.  As  he  moves,  he  descries  in 
the  opposite  embrasure  a  woman,  young 
and  fair  but  for  the  haggard  weariness  of 
her  face,  stooping,  and  staring  steadily  at 
the  water  in  its  dull,  monotonous  flow. 
Softly  he  touches  his  lute  to  a  delicate, 
distant  melody :  exquisite  vibrations  as 
though  of  long  forgotten  strains,  of  loved 
sounds  and  voices.] 


168  Vistas. 

Once,  with  a  strange,  reluctant  fear,  the  girl 
turns  ;  but  seeing  him  not  in  the  shadow,  and 
thinking  herself  alone  with  the  murmuring 
water,  looks  no  more.  So  subtly  soft  and 
sweet  is  the  music  stealing  upon  her  ears,  that 
it  is  as  though  it  came  from  afar.  Hearing  it, 
she  smells  again  the  wild  roses  and  the  honey- 
suckle in  the  hedges ;  listens  to  the  bees  lazily 
fumbling  among  the  red  and  white  clover  in  the 
hot  pastures,  to  the  faint  wind  astir  among  the 
flowering  beans,  to  the  lowing  of  distant  cows, 
to  the  haunting  call  of  the  cuckoo  above  the 
woodlands  where  a  sleepy  murmur  comes  from 
the  cushats'  nests.  But,  listening  entranced, 
the  haunting  strains  come  to  her  at  last  not  from 
afar,  but  from  below,  deep  from  the  heart  of 
the  flood  flowing  onward  for  ever  and  ever. 
Suddenly  a  great  trembling  comes  upon  her : 
and  in  a  low  voice  she  cries  :  — 

"Who  is  there?" 

As  from  among  the  grasses  she  hears  the 
sound  of  small  feet  running,  and  of  a  soft,  low 
laughter.  Springing  downward  with  a  cry,  she 
hearkens  the  strange  music,  ringing  in  her  ears 
wildly  sweet :  but  as  the  dark  waters  over- 
whelm her,  she  knows  nought  save  a  horrible 
choking  as  of  a  suffocating  child,  the  fierce 
execrations  and  blows  of  a  man,  and  a  fearful, 
fathomless  gulf  into  which  she  is  sinking  as  a 
stone  into  the  abyss. 

[For  long,  and  as  though  wearily,  the  Lute- 
player  leans  upon  the  bridge.  The  wash 
of  the  water  and  the  sough  of   the  night- 


The  Lute-Player.  169 

wind  alone  break  the  stillness ;  yet  it  is 
to  him  as  though  with  their  undertone  are 
wrought  remoter  harmonies  of  earth  and 
sky,  wherein  also  the  moonlight  and  the 
far  icy  stars  and  the  wandering  clouds 
have  utterance. 

When,  at  the  last,  veiled  in  shadow,  he  passes 
on,  the  dawn  breaks.  Erelong  the  opal  of 
the  east  is  haloed  by  great  fan-like  stream- 
ers of  gold  and  crimson  :  and  those  looking 
upon  the  morning  star  see  beneath  it  the 
unfolding  of  the  splendor  of  the  Flower  of 
Day.  The  boatmen  on  the  long  barges  and 
moored  sloops  upon  the  river  hear  for  a 
moment  the  echo  of  a  sweet,  a  blithe 
sweet  song :  and  the  peasants  trooping 
through  the  fields  listen  intently  to  catch 
again  the  happy  lilt  of  delicate  strains 
heard  afar :  and  upon  the  hills  the  shep- 
herds look  upward,  with  hands  shading 
their  eyes,  half  startled  by  faint  vanishing 
cadences  of  joyous  music. 

The  birds  sing,  and  the  flowers  bloom,  and 
the  winds  unfold  their  wings  and  fare 
forth  in  the  sunshine.  Everywhere,  every- 
where, the  joy  and  glory  of  life.  And  the 
Lute-player,  clothed  with  a  radiance  of 
sunlight  and  with  eyes  of  morning,  moves 
onward  through  the  glad  noon,  playing  ever 
his  wild,  sweet  song :  for  unto  him  is  no 
night  and  no  day,  and  unto  him  no  morrow 
comes  for  whom  all  morrows  are  but  strains 
remembered  from  an  antique  song.] 


The  Whisperer. 


The  Whisperer. 


[A  summer  noon,  in  a  crowded  thoroughfare 
of  London.  The  sunlight  slants  through 
a  thin  veil  of  blue,  and  becomes  a  pale 
gold  on  the  street,  where  the  endless  surge 
of  the  traffic  is  as  the  waters  of  the  sea 
caught  in  a  narrow  strait.  Among  the 
hundreds  who  hurry  this  way  and  that 
goes  a  man  who  looks  beyond  him  as 
though  he  descried  somewhat  afar  off  for 
which  he  yearned.  Sometimes  he  stops 
abruptly,  and  with  startled  eyes  stares  at 
the  man  or  woman  at  that  moment  by  his 
side :  sometimes  he  speaks,  though  none 
answers  him.] 

THE   MAN. 

[Stopping  abruptly,  in  his  rapid  walk  eastward, 
while  the  light  wanes  from  his  eyes.] 

Who  spoke  ? 

THE   WHISPERER. 

It  is  I. 

THE   MAN. 

Who  art  thou? 

[Silence.] 


'74 


Vistas. 


THE    MAN. 


[Turning  first  to  one  person  moving  past  him, 

then  to  another. "\     What  is  it? 

[Each  stares  for  a  moment,  but  none  answers. 
All  whom  he  addresses  hurry  on  without 
regarding  him :  a  few  glance  at  him  and 
mutter  irritably  or  scornfully.  Slowly  he 
resumes  his  way.  Again  the  voice  is  in 
his  ear.] 


Who  spoke? 


It  is  I. 


Who  art  thou? 


THE    MAN. 


THE   WHISPERER. 


THE    MAN. 


THE   WHISPERER. 

I  am  of  Those  who  watch. 


For  whom  ? 


For  what  ? 


THE   MAN. 


THE   MAN. 


THE    MAN. 


Art  thou  here? 

THE   WHISPERER. 

I  am  here. 


[Silence.] 
[Silence.] 


The  Whisperer.  175 


THE    MAN. 

I  see  thee  not :  where  art  thou  ? 

THE    WHISPERER. 


I  am  in  the  rhythm  of  the  whirling  wheels 
and  the  falling  hoofs,  in  the  noise  of  innumerous 
feet,  and  the  murmur  of  myriad  breaths.  The 
sparrows  flicker  in  the  light  of  my  footfall,  and 
the  high  sunlight  is  in  my  eyes. 


THE    MAN. 

What  would'st  thou  ? 

THE    WHISPERER. 

I  have  no  will,  O  falling  wave.     It  is  I  who 
say  :  what  would'st  thou  ? 

THE   MAN. 

Where  am  I  ? 

THE   WHISPERER. 

In  a  vast  maelstrom  in  a  vaster  sea. 

THE   MAN. 

Am  I  then  a  lost  wave  ? 

THE    WHISPERER. 

A  rising  and  a  falling  wave. 

THE   MAN. 

[Reiterating  below  his  breath.]     A  rising  and 
a  falling  wave  ! 


176  Vistas. 

THE   WHISPERER. 

A  falling  and  a  rising  wave. 

THE   MAN. 

Art  thou  a  spirit? 

THE    MAN. 

What  art  thou  ? 

THE   MAN. 


[Silence.] 


[Silence.] 


\Turning  desperately  to  an  old  man  at  his 

side.~\     It  is  thou  !     Speak,  speak  ! 

[The  old  man  looks  at  him  fearfully,  shakes 
off  his  grasp,  and  hurries  onward.] 

THE   WHISPERER. 

I  am  here. 

THE    MAN. 

If  I  am  of  those  for  whom  you  watch  tell  me 
to  what  end? 

THE   WHISPERER. 

That,  if  thou  wilt,  when  thou  art  ready,  thou 
may'st  hear  and  see. 

THE   MAN. 

Thus  be  it.     I  would  hear,  and  see. 

[Even  as  he  speaks,  the  Man  sees  the  crowd 
in  the  street  become  trebled :  and  in  his 
ears  is  a  noise  of  crying  and  lamentation, 
with  vague  remote   shouts  of  victory  and 


The  Whisperer.  177 

defiance.  Like  unto  the  innumerable  fall- 
ing of  the  waves  upon  the  sea  is  the  dim, 
confused  rumor  of  the  strife  of  human  pas- 
sions, embodied  in  shadowy  shapes,  with 
wild  eyes  of  hope,  dread,  wrath,  horror,  and 
dismay.  Beside  each  man  or  woman  moves 
two  others,  the  phantom  of  the  soul  and 
the  phantom  of  the  body.  And  ever  the 
phantom  of  the  soul,  with  its  eyes  of  morn- 
ing glory,  looks  through  the  veil  of  flesh 
into  its  fellow,  now  dulled  or  sleeping,  now 
weary  or  heedless,  now  listening  intently, 
now  alive  and  eager.  And  ever  the  phan- 
tom of  the  body  moves  a  little  in  advance 
of  its  fellow,  and  weaves  a  glamour  before 
the  eyes,  and  sings  a  wildering  song  into 
the  ears,  and  laughs  low  because  the  flames 
of  fire  that  are  its  feet  seem  like  roses,  and 
the  dust  and  ashes  upon  its  head  are  as  fra- 
grant lilies,  and  the  dropping  decays  where- 
with it  is  clad  wave  like  green  branches  that 
lure  to  the  woodland.] 

THE   MAN. 

[Shuddering."]  Everywhere  the  Evil  One 
has  his  triumph. 

THE   WHISPERER. 

There  is  no  Evil  One. 

THE    MAN. 

But  he  —  the  phantom  of  the  body,  who 
weaves  his  charm  of  the  grave  and  his  rune  of 
corruption  — 

THE    WHISPERER. 

Look! 

[And  the  Man,  looking,  sees  only  one  figure 
moving  beside  each  human  being  of  all  the 
hurrying  myriad.] 

12 


178  Vistas. 


THE   MAN. 

Who  —  who  is  it  ? 

THE    WHISPERER. 

It   is   the    phantom  of  the  man   or  of  the 
woman. 

THE   MAN. 

Are  they,  then,  one :    the    phantom   of  the 
soul  and  the  phantom  of  the  body? 

THE   WHISPERER. 

They  are  one. 

THE   MAN. 

[Terrified.']     And  thou? 


[Silence.] 


II. 


[Under  a  chestnut  tree,  on  a  grassy  place,  near 
a  cottage,  in  the  remote  country.  There  is 
no  moon,  but  its  radiance  comes  diffused 
through  soft,  filmy  clouds.  In  the  dark- 
ness, the  Man  stands,  listening  intently.] 

THE   MAN. 

I  am  not  alone? 

[Silence.] 

THE   MAN. 

I  know  thou  art  nigh.     It  is  on  the  wind,  on 
the  leaves,  in  the  grass. 

THE   WHISPERER. 

I  am  here. 


The  Whisperer.  179 

THE    MAN. 

The  time  is  come.     Tell  me  that  which  thou 
art  —  show  me  that  which  thou  art. 

THE    WHISPERER. 

Look! 

[And  the  Man,  looking,  beholds  for  the  first 
time  the  flowing  of  the  wind.  As  he 
looks,  the  heavens  open,  and  the  flowing 
of  the  wind  is  from  the  starry  depths, 
and  is  filled  with  a  myriad  myriad  aerial 
beings,  —  souls  coming  and  going,  fair 
spirits,  shadows  and  shapes  innumerable, 
strange  and  sometimes  terrible.] 

THE   MAN. 

[Awestruck.']     What  art  thou? 

THE    WHISPERER. 

I  am  the  rhythm  of  the  sap  in  the  grass  and 
the  trees,  of  the  blood  in  all  living  things,  of 
the  running  of  waters,  of  the  falling  of  dews  and 
rains,  of  the  equipoise  of  oceans,  of  the  four 
winds  of  the  world,  of  the  vast  swing  of  the 
Earth. 

THE   MAN. 

Thou  art  the  God  of  this  world  !  Thou  art 
God  !     Lo,  I  worship  thee  ! 

THE   WHISPERER. 

Behold  ! 

[And  the  Man,  looking,  beholds  through  the 
mist  of  stars  a  whirling  grain  of  sand, 
falling  forever  through  the  waste  eternity 
of  Oblivion.] 


1 80  Vistas. 


THE    WHISPERER. 


That  whirling  grain  of  dust  is  the  World  of 
which  thou  hast  spoken. 

THE    MAN. 

Thou  art  no  other  than  God,  the  God  whom 
all  races  have  worshipped  since  Time  was  ! 

THE   WHISPERER. 

Behold  ! 

[And  the  Man,  looking,  beholds  amid  the 
depths  of  the  stars  a  vast  Shape,  seated 
on  a  golden  sun  among  the  Pleiades,  who 
swings  forever,  as  a  lamp  of  incense,  the 
Seven  Stars,  and  with  them  all  the  stars 
and  planets  and  suns  and  moons  of  the 
universe :  and  as  he  swings  this  Lamp  of 
Incense,  he  sings  a  song  of  praise  and 
worship  to  the  Most  High.] 

THE   WHISPERER. 

Behold,  thou  hast  seen  thy  God,  and  the 
God  whom  all  the  races  of  the  world  have  wor- 
shipped since  time  was.  And  now,  turn  thine 
eyes  upon  the  glory  of  Him  yet  again. 

[And  the  Man,  looking,  beholds  another  grain 
of  sand  whirling  forever  through  the  waste 
infinities  of  Oblivion.] 

THE   WHISPERER. 

That  whirling  grain  of  sand  is  the  vast  uni- 
verse of  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars  that  thou 
knowest,  and  all  the  suns  and  planets  and  stars 
eye  hath  seen  or  the  brain  conceived. 


The  Whisperer.  181 


THE   MAN. 

[Scarce  whispering.']     And  God  ? 

THE   WHISPERER. 

Thou  canst  not  see  the  invisible  speck  that 
was  His  throne.  Behold  the  grain  of  sand  that 
was  His  universe. 

THE   MAN. 

Who  art  thou  ? 

[Silence.] 

THE   MAN. 

\_In  his  soul!\     Is  there  nought  beyond  ? 

THE   WHISPERER. 

Verily :  the  nearer  foam  of  the  Sea  of  Life. 

THE   MAN. 

Doth  God  live  ? 

THE   WHISPERER. 

Beyond  the  extreme  horizon  of  the  Sea  of 
Life,  Gods  and  Powers  and  Dominions  bow 
down  before  the  Most  High. 

THE   MAN. 

And  then? 

THE   WHISPERER. 

The  Sea  of  Life  begins. 


1 82  Vistas. 


THE    MAN. 

[Despairingly. ~]       Beyond    all    thoughts   to 
find  Him  —  all  prayer  to  reach  Him  ! 

THE   WHISPERER. 

Nay,  He  is  here. 

[The  Man,  bewildered,  stares  around  him  as 
the  moon  sails  from  out  the  last  films  of 
mist.  In  his  hand  is  a  blade  of  grass,  that 
he  had  not  plucked.] 

THE   MAN. 

[Vaguely  repeating.]     Nay,  He  is  here! 

THE   WHISPERER. 

I  am  thine  to  serve,  O  spirit  that  dieth  not. 

THE    MAN. 

Who  art  thou? 

[Silence.] 


And  I  remain  thus,  dreaming,  listening  to 
that  interminable  dialogue  between  the  heart  that 
desires  and  the  reason  that  reprehends,  going 
from  hypothesis  to  hypothesis,  like  a  blind  bird 
casting  itself  incessantly  against  the  four  walls 
of  its  cage. 

L'Irrem£diable. 


THE   END. 


PRINTED  BY  JOHN  WILSON 
AND  SON  AT  THE  UNIVERSITY 
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